Mirkwood Manor
by Lacadiva
Summary: AU – Legolas has lived thousands of years. A woman with a violent past brings adventure and danger back to his life again.
1. Default Chapter

Mirkwood Manor by Lacadiva  
  
Rating: PG/PG13 for violence in upcoming chapters.  
  
Synopsis: AU – Legolas never made it to the undying lands, and has lived several thousand years. He leads a lonely, contemplative and sadly boring existence in modern day America. He hires an archivist and student of ancient history to organize and preserve his "collection" of books, maps and writings of Middle Earth, but a threat from someone from her violent past – one who harbors a deadly secret of his own – brings danger and adventure back into the warrior Elf's life. I'm brand-spanking new to LOTR fanfic, so I know I have many facts wrong; I just hope I can tell a decent, entertaining story with Mirkwood Manor. Please review. Hannonle.  
  
Chapter 1  
  
The house was very old and covered in ivy and shadow. It stood far from the street, up a path that wound through lush gardens still thick with flowers and foliage – despite the lateness of the year - and trees older than the house itself. Turning leaves rained down continuously on the unusually green lawn, slowly overwhelming it in a blanket of gold, rust and blood red. Never had Charlita seen colors so vibrant. And were the flowers not so fragrant, or the way, even in the fading light of an early fall sunset, less beautiful, she would have sworn this was the precursor to painful albeit clichéd death in a bad Technicolor horror movie.  
  
She held out a hand to catch a falling leaf – a sign of good luck, she decided when she was a little girl. Perhaps this will be the job she's been searching for. Maybe this employer will be a little less eccentric than her last, and perhaps will tolerate her busy schedule. By the look of the place, he would no doubt balk at her hourly rate even though he could obviously afford it. The rich were funny that way.  
  
She took a deep breath, straightened her clothing one more time, and tucked a thin dark dreadlock into the colorful scar wrapped around her head, and made her way up the stone steps to the huge front door.  
  
She reached for the rusting iron doorknocker that was as big as her head, and quite heavy. She gave it a good effort, lifting and bringing it down in three hard raps, and heard it reverberate against the ornate door. She took a moment to break away from concentrating on being a good interview subject to admire the workmanship that went into the door, the wood and iron work, the small, hand-painted window glass. All of it seemed very early European, perhaps fifteen hundred years old or more. Artisans would have to have been flown in to refurbish and recreate such a majestic home. Just as she was reaching out to touch the doorknocker again, she heard a latch disengage. She quickly snapped into "hire me" mode and forced a smile. Charlita hated being such a phony, but she desperately needed the job.  
  
The door opened just wide enough for whoever was inside to peer out without being seen accept in silhouette.  
  
"Yes? What do you want?"  
  
The voice was male, and sounded quite tired, thought not particularly old and far from weak, she surmised. Accented, but she could not quite discern what region of England or perhaps Ireland. She took a deep breath, hoping that her duties would not also include taking care of the old crone. She was explicit in her letter of introduction that she sought archival work, would accept translation assignments, but did not wish to add caretaker, nurse and housekeeper to her responsibilities. She hoped he would bother to read it.  
  
"I'm looking for a Mr. Greenleaf."  
  
Silence.  
  
"I'm responding to your ad in the university paper. You need an archivist. I'm here regarding the position."  
  
"Ah."  
  
That was it, all he said. The door remained in its position, but Charlita was not sure if the old guy was still there or not. So she reached out and pushed the door. It was heavy, and creaked, a deep, almost mournful sound that sent a shiver through her.  
  
She stepped inside. It was even more breathtaking. Spacious, parsimoniously furnished, but with antiques that she swore only carbon dating could identify the year in which each was crafted. She expected gloom, mustiness, and dust motes floating in and out of her vision. But the air had a certain lightness to it, and the darkness was simply natural – there currently were no electric lights on, thought fixtures were in place. There was a tremendous chandelier that hung in the middle of the great hall, its crystals dangling like frosty, delicate tears threatening to rain down upon her head.  
  
There was a wide, winding staircase. And plants everywhere. An incredible variety of plants. Nothing particularly exotic, but all were lush and meticulously maintained. Obviously loved. That was the only way she could describe it.  
  
"I wonder," she whispered under her breath, "what the rest of the place looks like?"  
  
"Perhaps I'll show you," came that voice. It seemed to come from every direction at once. "Depending on the outcome of the interview."  
  
Charlita gasped and turned about, and found a man standing in the shadows. He lit a match and placed it to a candle's wick. She strained to get a good look at his face as amber light allowed her to see some aspect of it – chiseled features, eyes that caught a hint of the candlelight and seemed to absorb and reflect it. Long, platinum-white hair that fell down his back and cascaded over his strong straight shoulders.  
  
"You scared me," she confessed, not meaning to, and instantly thrust out a hand as a show of good will and trust.  
  
"I'm Charlita Huffington. I'm here about the archivist position. The ad in the university press said to apply in person."  
  
"You seem a bit old for a college student."  
  
"I'm a returning student. I was married for a few years. I decided to go back to school and pursue my Ph.D. in history and ancient civilizations."  
  
"I see."  
  
A long silence. She felt as if she was being evaluated, sized up, scrutinized. Was she too old? When did 29 get to be old? Was she too ethnic? She'd been growing the dreads since her ex-husband became her ex, over three years now, as rebellion, as protest, as claiming and embracing the African part of her triune heritage with enthusiasm. She was quite proud of every little twist. She found herself growing impatient and rather angry. She'd been on the receiving end of a preconceived notion far too many times. Had he already made up his mind about her?  
  
"Look, Mr. Greenleaf – "  
  
"Shall we continue this in the library?"  
  
She forgot what she was going to say. She caught a glimpse of his face again and was equally chilled and warmed by what she saw. A thin breeze caused the flame of the candle to flicker and dance, and she saw those odd eyes of his seem to do the same. In the half-light she could see no sign of lines or wrinkles. No gray beard. Not even the smell of mustiness she'd expected from a man living alone in such a huge place. Instead, she smelled sandalwood and hints of sweet moss and wheat, elderberry and rosemary, and ...  
  
"Miss Huffington?"  
  
"Yes?" she said, snapping out of her reverie.  
  
"The library?"  
  
"Yes. After you," she said.  
  
* * *  
  
He poured her a second cup of tea. She admired his masculine grace and elegance, his genuine hospitality. Despite her earlier fears, she found herself thinking of this Mr. Greenleaf as more of a perfect host, rather than a potential employer. She found herself telling him almost everything about herself – her work at the university, her love of ancient cultures, her fascination with weapons and literature of the distant past. She told him about her thesis, and that depending on whether or not she got the job, most of the material she would be archiving for Mr. Greenleaf, with his permission, of course, would probably find its way into her paper. She told him of her ultimate dream to create a place – not a stuffy museum – but a different place where people could view and experience ancient artifacts from all over the world. Where they could actually handle some of the more stable objects, or even use them to get a taste of what life might have been like.  
  
"Imagine," she said with a wide, engaging smile, "what it would be like to sit down to a an authentic dinner prepared with kitchen wares and utensils from over five thousand years ago? Or combing your hair with an implement over ten thousand years old?"  
  
"I can imagine," Mr. Greenleaf said, unable to stop his own smile from creeping upon his face.  
  
"Perhaps it's a bit farfetched and outlandish..."  
  
"I think it is a very noble idea."  
  
"Well," she said, landing back on earth, "if it happens, it's a long way off. I still have my thesis to write, I still have a son to raise and student loans to pay back. Which brings us back to the position."  
  
"Yes," he said rising somewhat stiffly. "Come with me, please."  
  
He led her down a long corridor to a locked door. He wore the key on a thin, leather braided rope around his neck, tucked down into his shirt. He opened the door and turned on a light. It was very soft, very dim. He stepped back and allowed Charlita to enter.  
  
Her mouth involuntarily opened, and though she wished to speak, she could barely make a sound. Her eyes traveled the entire room. Every surface, every shelf, from floor to ceiling was filled with old papers, scrolls, giant leather bound books. Yellowing, crumbling, ink fading. All so very beautiful to her eyes.  
  
Again she tried to speak, but only a soft sigh escaped her lips. She held out her arms, knowing she should not touch a thing, but so desperately wanting to.  
  
"This," she finally was able to squeak out, "this is incredible. May I?"  
  
Mr. Greenleaf nodded, and she reverently touched a map with curled, crumbling edges. It made her shudder.  
  
"How does one come into possession of such incredible artifacts?" she asked breathlessly. "It's so much."  
  
"There was more," he said, "but much has been lost to me over time. Still, it is rather daunting, this task. The last applicant took one look at the room and quite nearly fainted. Needless to say, he declined to accept the position."  
  
"He didn't understand," she said in a whisper.  
  
"I beg your pardon, Miss Huffington?"  
  
She was startled – he should not have been able to hear her. She realized how ridiculous she sounded, how crazy.  
  
"He didn't understand what a treasure all of this is. Voices from the past. It goes beyond history. It's unraveling the thoughts and feelings and hearts and deeds of everyone who came before us. How can you understand where you are or where you're going, if you don't know where you came from? I'm sorry. You must think I'm whack."  
  
His gray/blue eyes regarded her curiously.  
  
"Whack. Nuts, you know, psycho, wacko, out of my mind. I'm not. Not really."  
  
Greenleaf merely considered her words and nodded.  
  
"I need someone," he said, picking up a heavy leather bound book and blowing dust from it, "who is expert in preservation, and can create a usable archive for me. A library of sorts."  
  
He held the book close for a moment, almost as if to hug it, then placed it gently back from whence it came.  
  
"That happens to be my specialty. If you look on my resume you'll see my work for the Smithsonian and the Museum of African Art in Washington, DC, the Museum of Modern Art in New York City, the Whitney, and -"  
  
"I don't need to read your resume."  
  
She felt the stab of failure in her heart. How had she lost this job so quickly? Was she too enthusiastic? Not enthusiastic enough?  
  
"Your passion for your work is quite clear. And refreshing."  
  
"I got the job?" she asked, a little too incredulously.  
  
"You'll start immediately. Take as long as you need to organize this room any way you wish. The only thing I require is that you agree not to remove anything from this house, or divulge any information you might glean from the various writings in my collection. I'm afraid I must insist upon that."  
  
So much for her thesis, she thought. But it would be worth it, just to spend an hour in this room.  
  
"Please understand," he said, his own eyes wistfully traveling the room, "this collection is very dear to me. Each work is as if a close friend had put pen to page. This is all I have left of them, and of a very special time."  
  
He spoke with such a conviction, such a deep sadness, those last few words, that Charlita felt tears burning the corners of her eyes.  
  
He continued, his voice almost in a hush.  
  
"Your hours can be quite flexible. It is essential that you work quietly and that your comings and goings do not interrupt or disturb mine. You are free to use other parts of the house as well, though my library is off limits unless I am present and feel obliged to extend an invitation. You may avail yourself of any food and drink you desire while under my employ, and you may use the gardens to rejuvenate, unless of course you find me there in some meditative repose. I ask that you allow me my solitude and take advantage of the garden once I am returned to the house."  
  
"Fine," she said, speechless at his gaze. As if he were strangely telepathic, he broke eye contact with her. "And what about my salary requirement?" she asked.  
  
"I have no problem with what you ask."  
  
Again a stab of disbelief, a nagging feeling in the back of her mind.  
  
"Forgive me if I come across as suspicious, but this is just a little too...perfect."  
  
"In what way, Miss Huffington?"  
  
Charlita reached out and touched a curled piece of brown paper with just her fingertip. The page was deliciously ancient, and left a thin film of dust on her finger. She deeply desired to reach out and touch another one, smell the oldness, read the pages, decipher the ancient script.  
  
"I don't know. I guess...I'm used to things being tougher."  
  
"Then you should be both glad and grateful."  
  
"I am!" she said in her defense. "Look, I'd love the job. But I have a few demands...uh, requests of my own."  
  
"Ask," Mr. Greenleaf said, taking a step closer.  
  
"Well...number one...I'm a professional."  
  
"Go on."  
  
"I'm here to archive your collection, not to substitute as a housekeeper or errand runner. I don't pick up dry cleaning and I don't cook. You wouldn't want me to, anyway. I'm a terrible cook."  
  
"Very well. No errand running and no housekeeping or cooking. Is there more?"  
  
"Yes," she said, taking a deep breath. "No staying late to help out at parties. No answering your phones. No rides. Unless you need to go to the doctor's or something. Although, you don't look like you need to go very often. I mean...you're not as old as I thought you were going to be. You don't appear to be old at all."  
  
"I assure you Miss Huffington," he said with a touch of a smile, "I'm much older than I appear."  
  
"Whatever. And most importantly, no..."  
  
"No...?"  
  
"It's not like I'm saying you'd ...people can be...I've worked for men...who think that just because...the point is, I'm divorced, but not desperate."  
  
Greenleaf paused to consider her words, and find meaning in them. When it dawned on him, he smiled and nodded.  
  
"I am quite satisfied to live quietly alone. Your honor will be safe under this roof."  
  
Her honor? She smiled, blushed.  
  
"Good," she said, relieved. "Then we have an agreement?"  
  
"I believe we do. Welcome to Mirkwood Manor, Miss Huffington."  
  
End Chapter one. Your comments/reviews welcomed. 


	2. Chapter 2

Mirkwood Manor by Lacadiva  
  
See disclaimer in Chapter 1.  
  
Chapter 2  
  
Only one word could describe Charlita's first week on the job. Bliss. No ringing phones. No boss breathing down her neck, demanding her time. No interruptions whatsoever. Just her in a room filled with history and mystery.  
  
The first day she merely placed a chair in the middle of the room and sat there, looking about, taking it all in. She sat that way for over an hour. Next, she pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves and began gently lifting the pages and carefully placing them about the room in some sort of order. All pages that appeared to be maps – and there were quite a lot of them! – went to one corner of the room. All that appeared to be letters to another corner. And all that appeared to be addendums to huge volumes of history books, consumed yet another corner.  
  
The maps fascinated her most. She could not yet read the fading script, nor had she figured out what country was described in those ancient hills and waterways and shires. But she had much in the way of resources, and knew that with time, and a little help from colleagues and professors, she would find a way to decipher them.  
  
As for her employer, she rarely knew he was around. She would arrive every morning at 8:45 and leave by 5:30 pm. The first day, he opened the door for her, and promptly disappeared. The next day, upon her arrival, she'd found the door unlocked, and a large key sitting on a table in the foyer. She would have to have a long talk with Mr. Greenleaf about home security.  
  
One afternoon, while taking a break, she wandered into the kitchen. She couldn't figure out what was strange about the room, until hunger had inspired her to seek out the refrigerator. There was no refrigerator. She assumed his old one was on the fritz, or perhaps he'd bought another that would be delivered later. But by week's end, no delivery persons had shown up, and by week two, there was still no refrigerator. She'd have to ask him about that, too.  
  
It was also strange how very quiet Mr. Greenleaf was. Sometimes she'd turn around and find him in the room, hovering nearby. She hadn't heard a footstep or creaking of wood floors. She knew they creaked – every time she took a step the wood groaned and cried under her slight weight. How had he – obviously taller and heavier that she - managed to be so quiet? She wasn't quite sure how to ask him about that, but in her head, she regarded him as the "stealthy bugger."  
  
Another thing she noticed. In the light of day, Greenleaf tended to look...well, younger. Healthier. When there was sunlight, and he'd make one of his ultra-quiet, unannounced and very brief appearances, she would look him in the face and see that, despite the thick white hair, he didn't appear to be very old at all. But when she'd see him at night, sitting in his library as she'd pass by, on her way out the door, she'd noticed how very old he moved. It wasn't physical, in his bones, but emotional, and though not etched in his face with lines and wrinkles, it was there in the sadness of his expression. It was as if he were in mourning, suffering from the sudden loss of those who meant everything to him. Sometimes it hurt her heart to look at him.  
  
Charlita did not wish to interfere in his life by asking or trying to make him feel better. A man should be able to live anyway he pleased. But it seemed such a waste to have someone like Mr. Greenleaf spend his life sitting in an old library remembering sad times when he could be enjoying his life.  
  
Maybe someday she'd have a talk to him about this, too.  
  
* * *  
  
The evening was cold, and the wind had picked up considerably. Winter was fast approaching, and Legolas knew the first snow of the season was not far away. He made a fire, and sat before it, on the floor, knees to his chest and arms wrapped around his legs. He closed his eyes and remembered.  
  
Suddenly he was sitting in sweet high grass at twilight. A cool lake bubbled nearby. A campfire burned several steps away. A fragrant meal warmed on a spit above the embers. And the promise – and threat – of action and adventure in the form of Orc hordes lay just beyond a mountainous ridge.  
  
He could hear Aragorn telling some old tale he'd told a million times before by the fire, but Legolas could never hear his stories enough.  
  
He could hear Gimli bragging about how bravely and flamboyantly he'd slaughtered a dozen unsuspecting Uruk-hai, tales of how his ax had served him well.  
  
Night would descend, and then Aragorn would begin to hum a song, just under his breath. Something inspired by love, or a lament for a fallen friend. And Legolas would begin to sing, his voice both haunting and heartening. All this by a warm fire shared between friends and allies, brothers in arms.  
  
Legolas snapped out of his memory, and found his eyes were wet with tears, his heart heavy with remembrance. He'd seen well over ten thousand years - why were these the only times his mind wandered back to over and over again? He'd seen the world change, reinventing and redefining itself so many times. He'd seen face of war change: from swords and arrows to flintlocks, to cannons, to bazookas and grenades, to heat seeking missiles and computer technology that assured mutual destruction. He'd seen the advancement of science: from flat earth theory to solar power to space technology. He'd seen the world go from traditional values to modern ideas and slam back to traditionalism again. He'd seen dictators and madmen come to power and die to be replaced by thousands of others over his long life. Yet no time like his time in Middle Earth stirred his heart and memory so. There were not many things in this strange world, save a warm hearth, that reminded him of times long since past.  
  
Ten thousand years ago.  
  
How had he lived so long, outside of the boundaries of the undying lands? Why did he remain?  
  
He pulled his hair down over his ears, a thing that had now become an unconscious habit. Best not to be noticed by the humans. He grew tired of explaining his elvish features as an unfortunate birth defect just to keep the humans from becoming overly curious or acting on their ignorance and fear. It was hard enough to keep up appearances of being of a certain age before it was time to move on again.  
  
There was but one thing he could do to relieve the heaviness in his soul. He began to sing. It was a song of loss and bravery with mournful minor notes that instantly brought him back to the brink of tears. This was the song that told the tale of the King of Gondor, Aragorn, his battle to save Middle Earth, and his love for the beautiful Elf Arwen, who had given up eternity for him, and become his wife.  
  
* * *  
  
She pulled off her wire rimmed glasses and her cotton gloves, yawned and stretched. She was exhausted and yet exhilarated all at once. Charlita had combed through nearly a quarter of the Stealthy Bugger's collection, far more than she had anticipated by this time. Quite an accomplishment. She had not yet found any reference books to help break the code of the language in which all these documents appeared, but she had found some symbols that looked oddly familiar, which would hopefully lead her down the proper code-breaking path eventually.  
  
She checked her watch and was nearly shocked – it was well past nine o'clock. Darkness had descended hours ago, and she'd probably missed the last bus. She'd have to cab it tonight.  
  
She reached for her cell phone (Mr. Greenleaf did not have a phone in the house. She'd have to talk to him about that, she mused) to call her son. He'd be staying with his best friend all week to allow her a chance to catch up on her thesis. She hated it when Tristan was away, and could not bring herself to go home. She'd planned to put in a few extra hours, but had not realized how quickly time had gotten away from her.  
  
"Hey, Tristan."  
  
"Mom, I told you, call me T.K."  
  
"Alright, T.K. How's everything?"  
  
"Cool. We had pizza and we're playing video games."  
  
"Did you do your homework?"  
  
"Yes," he said, impatiently.  
  
"Don't be up all night, okay?"  
  
"Mom, it's Friday!"  
  
"I know, but –"  
  
"I gotta go."  
  
"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow. Love you."  
  
"Yeah. Bye."  
  
"Bye Tri...T.K."  
  
How had he grown up so quickly? One minute she was bouncing him on her knee, reveling in his crooked smile and garbled first words, impressed by his deep stare from dark intelligent eyes and how everything was mommy. If she fed him, he had to feed her, insisting upon pushing a Cheerio between her lips and giggle madly when she made a show of eating it. If she tickled him, he had to tickle her, wiggling his strong and tiny fingers under her chin until she laughed raucously. If she was sad, he'd sit quietly in her arms and let her be. Now at nearly ten years old, Tristan, a.k.a. T.K. didn't seem to have much use for mommy anymore. In many ways she applauded his independence – he would be fine if some tragedy caused her to be prematurely taken away from him. In other ways, it broke her heart – where had her baby gone? She prayed that his desire to be separate from her would be temporary, and that someday he would understand how wide and deep her love ran for her only child, and that he would appreciate it and return it twofold.  
  
She quickly dialed her favorite taxicab company and ordered her ride. The kindly dispatch person apologized that it would be more than thirty minutes before her cab arrived, reminding her how busy Friday nights could be. She considered trying to get a bit more work done while she waited, but exhaustion had begun to overwhelm her. Her neck and shoulder muscles ached and burned from bad posture, and her legs were slightly stiff from sitting too long. It was all she could do to stand and collect her few belongings.  
  
She turned off the lights, locked the room, then walked as quietly down the hall as she could. She cursed the squeaking wood floors that announced her every step, and hoped that she was not disturbing the Stealthy Bugger.  
  
She was not aware of his nightly routine, as she was usually gone long before this hour. She was not sure if he was an early to bed, early to rise kind of man, or if he was a night owl, hanging out in his library reading mysteries or technical magazines. She wondered if his tastes ever ran to the more male-oriented magazines, but for some reason she could not see him indulging in that kind of thing. It seemed wrong somehow. She imagined he would read The Art of War, or perhaps Russian literature. Maybe Dickens or Victor Hugo, or Chaucer.  
  
And then she heard it. It was a sound that both warmed her heart and chilled her soul. His voice was like nothing she had ever heard, not in her entire life. The language was strange and beautiful. She stopped and listened, letting the complicated but soothing melody take wing in her imagination. She stepped closer, wanting desperately to hear more, and more clearly. Another step and she was right at the library door. She peered in and saw Mr. Greenleaf. He was sitting on the floor, lost in his song, eyes closed, head slightly raised, making those incredible sounds.  
  
And suddenly, to her chagrin, he was finished. She stood there, trembling, her own eyes squeezed shut and brimming with tears, a hand on her chest, wondering what had just come over her. When she opened her eyes, she found Mr. Greenleaf standing before her.  
  
She nearly fell back, startled, embarrassed, caught. She could barely read her employer's expressions. She was sure there was anger, but there was something else, something she could not fathom or discern.  
  
"I'm sorry," she said, voice quivering. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop. I was just leaving and I heard you...singing."  
  
Mr. Greenleaf said nothing, only stared at her.  
  
"I've never heard such .... I'm sorry."  
  
"You leave at five thirty."  
  
"I wanted to work a little later tonight. My son is away. I don't like being home when he's away. So I stayed. I'm sorry. You don't have to pay me the overtime."  
  
"Money is not my concern. My privacy is."  
  
"I understand."  
  
"Do you?"  
  
She'd never heard such sternness in his voice before. She wanted very much to stand up for herself, to tell him he cannot talk to her that way. But she could not find the words.  
  
"I do," she said finally. "It won't happen again. My cab should be here soon. I'll wait outside."  
  
"Nonsense," he said as she reached for the door, "the evening is quite cool. Stay inside. Your driver will alert you upon his arrival."  
  
"Okay, you're sending me mixed messages here. You're telling me I shouldn't be here and now you want me to stay till the cab comes. I'm confused."  
  
"Better you be confused than cold. Come into the library. There's a fire."  
  
* * *  
  
Ten minutes into her wait, and there she sat in a deep red leather chair. Mr. Greenleaf stood by the fire. She watched the light dance in his eyes.  
  
"What were you singing?" she finally asked, not really expecting much of an answer.  
  
"A song I learned many years ago."  
  
"What language was it?"  
  
"A dead one."  
  
She wanted to let it lie, but her curiosity was too much to bear.  
  
"Whatever you were singing, it gave me chills."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"No! It's a good thing. Definitely a good thing. You should record it." She instantly felt ridiculous. Despite the long white hair, he was hardly the rock star type.  
  
"Record it?"  
  
"Yeah, you know, put in on CD. I'm sorry, it's a ridiculous idea."  
  
"CD. Yes. I'm mildly familiar with it. Compact disk. Digitized recorded music. Would you purchase it?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And listen to it?"  
  
"I'd wear it out."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because it's beautiful. It stirred my heart. It's the kind of thing you want to hear again and again."  
  
He smiled. "You'd be the only one."  
  
"You don't know that. Once it got a bit of airplay...."  
  
"Airplay?"  
  
"The radio. You know."  
  
"I'm afraid I don't have one. I did, many years ago, but I didn't like much of what was coming out of it."  
  
Charlita nodded. "Yeah, music isn't what it used to be. I'm into old school."  
  
"Old school?"  
  
"You know, Motown. Seventies rock."  
  
"Unfamiliar to me."  
  
"Oh, come on. You've heard the Supremes, the Temptations. Smokey Robinson?"  
  
"Are they Seventies rock?"  
  
"No," she cried. "Where the heck have you been?"  
  
"If you are considered an aficionado of 'old school', I'm afraid my 'school' is far older than yours."  
  
"What...Fifties? Fourties? Benny Goodman? Older than that?"  
  
"Keep going."  
  
"A fifteenth century madrigal?"  
  
"Closer."  
  
She tilted her head so that she could see better the smile that was playing at his lips.  
  
"I'm afraid I don't understand much of modern music," Mr. Greenleaf confessed. "It's all about falling in love...or rather lust...and then falling quite quickly out of it. Love songs are of great importance to every culture, but they've become quite superficial and not particularly romantic these days. I've heard songs long, long ago that are so deeply stirring that you cannot bear to move a full minute after the song has ended. Songs that so deeply penetrate your heart and soul that it becomes a part of you. Songs that compel you to dare climb a mountain, fight a fear, or to take into your arms the one you love and declare you devotion no matter what consequence is borne of it. Songs that let you know that when you cry, you do not cry alone."  
  
His voice trailed off, lost in some memory Charlita wished she had privy to. What a memory it must have been.  
  
He caught himself and turned away from the mesmerizing fire and gave her a weak smile. "I get carried away," he said in apology.  
  
"Feel free to go farther."  
  
"You know, there was one modern tune that remained with me for a brief spell. I did not much like the music, but the words were quite compelling."  
  
"Do you remember how it went?" Charlita asked.  
  
"Some of it," he confessed, and ran a hand through his hair, trying to conjure up the words. "I believe I'm paraphrasing, but it went something like this. 'Do not push me, because I stand upon to the edge. I am trying not to lose my head."  
  
Charlita's eyes narrowed as she pried the lyric from her memory. When finally she remembered, she laughed so hard she nearly fell from her chair.  
  
Greenleaf looked a touch embarrassed.  
  
"Oh, my gosh," she said, reclaiming her wits, calming the raucous laughter that had claimed her. "Oh my GOSH, that's a rap song."  
  
"Rap? Yes. Perhaps."  
  
"I believe the rest is...It's like a jungle sometimes, it makes me wonder how I keep from going under."  
  
"That's the song!"  
  
"You do not look like the rapper type."  
  
"Perhaps not. But you have to admit, the sentiment displayed in that particular rhyme is quite indicative of the times. One needn't be a "rapper" to appreciate it. And I'd appreciate it if you'd forget about my sorrowful attempt to "rap."  
  
Before she could answer, she heard a horn blaring outside.  
  
"That's my cab."  
  
"Ah," he said quickly and came to her side, a gentleman waiting to escort her to the door. "I bid you good night, Miss Huffington."  
  
"I enjoyed chatting with you, Mr. Greenleaf."  
  
"So did I," he said. His surprise at this was not completely masked.  
  
Charlita smiled. "Have a good weekend."  
  
"Weekend? Oh, yes, it is the weekend already, isn't it? Then I shall see you Monday."  
  
He waited at the door until the taxi pulled off. He stepped back inside, closed the door, and nearly shuddered at the sudden chill. A heaviness descended upon him, weighing him down, one that was usually omnipresent but strangely forgotten for the short time while in the presence of his employee. He knew what it was immediately and fought not let his heart be overcome by it.  
  
Loneliness.  
  
End Chapter two. Light and fluffy now, but it gets harsher later. Please respond and I'll keep going. 


	3. Chapter 3

Mirkwood Manor by Lacadiva  
  
Chapter 3  
  
* * *  
  
"I'm not a baby. I can stay home alone."  
  
"No, Tristan. I don't want you home alone.  
  
"T.K.!"  
  
"Whatever!"  
  
Charlita raced around the kitchen, preparing breakfast, looking at her watch every few minutes and becoming more anxious as time progressed. School was closed for teacher meetings, and Charlita had received the requisite letter informing her as such, but she'd promptly forgot it. She had not arranged for a babysitter, and was loathed to even use the word babysitter in front of her son, or he'd go off on another tirade.  
  
"Get your jacket," she said. "You're going to work with me."  
  
"Ma!"  
  
"Don't 'ma' me! Get your coat, let's go, I'm late."  
  
Tristan ripped his coat off the plastic hanger, sending it spinning around the wood pole and crashing to the closet floor. A sharp look from Charlita, and he huffed and picked it up and put it back.  
  
"You have to promise me," she said, putting her own coat on, "that you won't get me in trouble. Just keep quiet, and for goodness sake don't touch ANYTHING. I'm still new on this job, and my boss is a little ... eccentric."  
  
"Like that last old geezer?"  
  
"He was nice."  
  
"He stank like old food in the trash can."  
  
"Stop it. Mr. Greenleaf isn't old, and he doesn't stink."  
  
"He probably likes little boys. Freak."  
  
"What! What do you know about that?"  
  
"I hear stuff, I'm not dumb."  
  
Charlita didn't know whether to discipline him or sit down and have along, heart to heart talk with him. Unfortunately, she had time for neither.  
  
"We're going to talk about this tonight, young man," she said, grabbing her son's wool cap and pulling it over his head and over his ears. She knew how sensitive Tristan was about his ears. The slight points that brought him so much grief were barely perceptible to her, but he claimed that the other kids noticed, making him the brunt of many jokes. She dared not tell him that the ears he hated so where inherited from his father.  
  
Any mention of Valgur would send Tristan into paroxysms of questions about a man she'd fought heaven and earth the keep away from them. Her last meeting with him had been nothing like the first one. The first being sweet, innocent, with a veiled smattering of the sensual. This lead to a strange, Svengali-like relationship, and ultimately a short-lived marriage. Her last meeting was violent and terrifying, and almost cost her life. The scar from the knife wound still itched and pulled every now and then, reminding her of his infinite cruelty. She shuddered at the thought of Valgur, beautiful but evil – unusually tall, broad, long black hair cascading down his back, bright, hairless face and mysterious blue eyes, and the ears, tapering to thin points. Such an unusual man, who claimed to be from another time – and she had believed it! How could she have been so stupid? He promised to unlock so many dark secrets for her, but instead brought her to the brink of death.  
  
"Mom?"  
  
She snapped back to the present, and found the beautiful face of her son. There was worry in his eyes. He knew what she was thinking about.  
  
"He's not coming back."  
  
"Who, baby?"  
  
"My father. And if he does, I'll take care of him."  
  
Spoken like a true man of the house. Charlita hugged her son gratefully.  
  
"Let's go," she said.  
  
Tristan grabbed a handful of X-Men comic books off the coffee table before following his mother out the door.  
  
* * *  
  
She'd been working non-stop for about two hours, and for that time, Tristan had been satisfied to sit in a Chippendale chair in a corner and flip through his comic books. It was only a matter of time, however, before he would get anxious and want to roam and explore.  
  
"Ma, can I go to the bathroom?"  
  
"Sure," she said, head buried in a map.  
  
"Where is it?"  
  
"Down the hall, fourth door on your right. And don't go exploring. You go right straight to the bathroom and come right back. I don't want Mr. Greenleaf to find your wandering around his house."  
  
Tristan left, feeling a world of pre-teen angst and parental disrespect pressing down on his narrow shoulders. Why couldn't life be more exciting than going to school and hanging out at his mother's weird boss's house?  
  
Fourth door on the right. Why not see what was behind the other three doors?  
  
Tristan opened the first door he came to. Not much going on there. A room full of plants.  
  
He opened a second door. More plants.  
  
He opened the third. Not a plant, but a very tall man with very long white hair. His expression was somewhere caught between anger and curiosity. And his face was so pale that he seemed as if he was glowing.  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
"MA!!!"  
  
Tristan took off down the hall back to the archive room. He ran smack into his mother who was standing there terrified upon hearing her child scream for her.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
Mr. Greenleaf appeared at the door, and Tristan merely pointed. Charlita put a protective arm around her son, pulling him close.  
  
"Mr. Greenleaf, this is my son, Tristan."  
  
"I startled you," Greenleaf said. "I'm sorry."  
  
"It's me who should be sorry," Charlita said. "I should have told you, my son's school is closed today. I neglected to arrange for a baby –"  
  
"Ma!"  
  
"Sorry...arrange for supervision....He was looking for the bathroom. I promise, he'll remain with me, and I won't let him wander around your house."  
  
"I would appreciate that," Greenleaf said, eyes on the boy, smiling slightly. "It's a very large house, and I wouldn't want the boy to be lost."  
  
"Why're you staring at me?" Tristan said defiantly at Mr. Greenleaf.  
  
"Forgive me. There has never been a child in this house. Not since I purchased in many years ago. Would you like to see the rest of the place?  
  
"I told you he was a freak," Tristan whispered to his Mother, who gave him a warning nudge.  
  
"Do not fear me. I mean you no harm."  
  
Charlita gave her son another little nudge. Something about her employer told her that her son would be almost safer with him than with her. Almost.  
  
"Go ahead," she encouraged Tristan.  
  
"What up with his hair?" Tristan whispered to his mother.  
  
"I think he looks like he could be one of the X-men, don't you?"  
  
This got Tristan's interest. He took a step toward Greenleaf and gave his mother one more look. She nodded, and he allowed himself to be ushered out of the door by the man who looked like a tall, willowy mutant superhero.  
  
* * *  
  
They ended up in the gardens. The calming, centering nature of the woodland realm in miniature instantly gave ease to Legolas' heart and mind. The calming effect on young Tristan was not lost on Legolas either. He watched as the boy seemed to take in all that was around him, breathe in deeply the air as if it were sweeter and more plentiful here.  
  
Tristan reached out to touch a thick thorn of a rose bush, but instantly recoiled and looked to Legolas to see if he had done something wrong.  
  
"Touch carefully," Legolas warned gently, then nodded in approval of the child's curiosity.  
  
Tristan touched the thorn.  
  
"Ow!" He quickly yanked his hand away and looked at his finger. No blood, no wound. Tristan shoved his hands into his pocket to prevent further injury or embarrassment.  
  
"Why'd you let me do that?"  
  
"The thorn hurt you?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Then you have learned a very valuable lesson. You shall never do that again."  
  
"You could have told me."  
  
"Would you have listened? Now you know for yourself. Walk with me."  
  
They continued to traverse the gardens, coming to a stop by an oak tree. There was still some shade, the last of its leaves clinging to wintering branches. They sat a few feet from each other. Legolas reached out to touch the grass, and noticed that Tristan did the same.  
  
"You approve of this place?" Legolas asked.  
  
"It's okay."  
  
"Yes. It is 'okay.' It is the only place I know where I can be thoroughly at ease. I'm not comfortable with the pace of your world. Everyone racing about in metal boxes on wheels."  
  
"You mean cars?"  
  
"Of course I mean cars. I know what they are called. I speak metaphorically."  
  
"Speak metaphorically with somebody else," Tristan shot back  
  
"You have much anger inside of you."  
  
"I'm not angry."  
  
"What would you call it then?"  
  
"Why do you care?"  
  
Legoals found himself staring at the boy again. Tristan gave him a suspicious look.  
  
"I recognize something in you, Tristan," Legolas said. "I care because I see in you what I found in myself many, many years ago."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You feel different. Set apart. Isolated. Not like your friends. Not so different that anyone could tell. Just something...slightly off. You're afraid that if they recognized it, they might persecute you for it. Or worse, abandon you."  
  
Tristan shrugged his shoulders, pulling at the thick grass.  
  
"My friends make fun of me sometimes," he confessed in a voice tinged with shame and regret.  
  
"Then, are they truly your friends?"  
  
Tristan merely shrugged.  
  
"A friend is someone who would easily lay down his own life for you. And you for him. Can you say that about your friends?"  
  
"Can you?"  
  
Legolas looked up to the sky. The sun's brilliance made him squint.  
  
"My friends are gone now."  
  
"You mean dead?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"That sucks. I mean, I'm sorry."  
  
Legolas smiled.  
  
"And they did lay their lives down for me. Many times."  
  
"What if they had a good reason to make fun of you?"  
  
"What would you consider a good reason?"  
  
"My name, for one," he spat, then with even more distaste, "Tristan."  
  
"What would you prefer?"  
  
"T.K."  
  
"And what does T.K. signify?"  
  
Again, the boy shrugged.  
  
"Tristan is a very noble name," said Legolas, "an ancient name, that belonged to a great knight warrior."  
  
"Warrior?"  
  
Legolas nodded. The boy let slip a smile.  
  
"I know of no warrior with the name, T.K. You said your name was one reason for which you are persecuted. What is your other reason?"  
  
Tristan shrugged again, and stared at the ground. Then he reached up and slowly removed his hat.  
  
Legolas' blue-gray eyes widened. His lips parted as if he wanted to speak, but the word could not find their way to his mouth. And when they did come out, they were in the dead language of the Elves.  
  
* * *  
  
Tristan saw the look of shock on Mr. Greenleaf's face, and instantly felt overcome by shame and embarrassment. What was he thinking? For a moment, he had believed that he could trust Mr. Greenleaf, that he was the only person who would understand him, not regard him as a freak.  
  
He was about to run, about to put as much ground between Greenleaf and himself as he could. Nevermind how angry his mother would be later, or the punishment he would receive for running off, disappearing. He imagined in that split second that freedom from the trauma caused by his defective ears could only be achieved by running away, losing himself in the streets, going where no one knew him or cared about him. He saw himself racing down the streets, dodging cars, insults being hurled by the hateful masses....  
  
Until Mr. Greenleaf pulled back his long, platinum hair, revealing his own pointed ears.  
  
Tristan's mouth fell open, and stayed until Mr. Greenleaf himself encouraged him to close it with a finger to the boy's chin.  
  
Greenleaf then smiled and said, "I shall honor your secret, if you will honor mine."  
  
* * *  
  
Two hours had passed, and Charlita was beginning to worry. Mr. Greenleaf and Tristan had been gone for quite a spell. Just as she had reached the point of stopping her work to go find them, Tristan came running back, happily grinning and racing straight for his comic books.  
  
"Tris...I mean, T.K., where did you go with Mr Greenleaf ?"  
  
"Just outside. We walked around the garden. It's kinda nice."  
  
"That's all?"  
  
"We talked some. He's cool."  
  
"He is?"  
  
Tristan opened a comic and settled down to read it, but his mother's silence commanded his attention. He raced over to her and planted a kiss on her cheek.  
  
"What was that for?"  
  
"Nothing. Thanks for bringing me here."  
  
Again, Charlita was speechless.  
  
"Mr. Greenleaf said I can come and visit him anytime I want. Can I?"  
  
"Can we talk about this at home tonight?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
Charlita was baffled again by her son's suddenly lack of brooding. He seemed genuinely happy. At ease. She watched as he wandered back over to his comics and sat on the floor.  
  
"Oh, ma...?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"You can call me Tristan."  
  
That did it. Tomorrow, she would talk to Mr. Greenleaf.  
  
* * *  
  
She knew something was wrong the moment she stepped up to the door. She shifted the weight of the heavy grocery bag in her arms and looked down at Tristan. He was carrying his own bag, and looking up at her quite curiously. She thought for a moment they should run, but if the hairs rising on the back of her neck, or the sick knot of fear forming in her gut turned out to be for nothing, should would have felt ridiculous for frightening her son. So she dug quickly in to her shouldering bag and pulled out a five dollar bill and handed it to her son.  
  
"I forgot ice cream."  
  
"No you didn't. You said I couldn't have any because I didn't clean my room."  
  
"I changed my mind. Go get some now."  
  
"Ma?"  
  
"NOW!"  
  
She snatched the bag from Tristan. Then took a deep breath, realizing he could see her fear. She formed an uneasy, unconvincing smile.  
  
"Chocolate," she said. Tristan headed back down the hall to the elevator, looking over his shoulder curiously at his mother.  
  
Charlita slid the key into the lock with a trembling hand. Once the door was open, she stepped into the dark room, leaving the door open behind her in case she had to run out. She quickly put down the grocery bags and reached for the light switch. Before she could touch it, a strong, leather covered hand clamped around her mouth, and an arm that felt made of steel grabbed her about the waist. She tried to scream, fought to scream, flailing her arms wildly, but her assailant only laughed, enjoying her struggle.  
  
She recognized the laugh and ceased to move. She knew it would be to no avail.  
  
And then she found herself flying across the room and slamming into a wall. She turned. The lights came on.  
  
"Val! What do you want?"  
  
Valgur turned his back for only a moment, throwing long, blue-black hair over his shoulder and revealing pale pointed elven ears before closing the door and locking it.  
  
Eyes that were cold and empty and as dark as his hair bore into Charlita's. "I came to see how my lovely wife was doing, and to say hello to my son."  
  
End Chapter 3. Comments if you like. Many thanks. Eat your peas. 


	4. Chapter 4

Mirkwood Manor  
  
Chapter 4  
  
Disclaimer in Chapter 1.  
  
* * *  
  
Charlita pushed herself from the wall and tried to stand on legs that had become rubbery with fear.  
  
"I'm not your wife anymore. You signed the papers."  
  
"In my heart, you will always be mine."  
  
"Get out."  
  
Quick as a flash he was across the room. He grabbed her by her throat and slammed her back against the wall.  
  
"That's no way to greet someone whose just returned from three years in prison. Horrible place, prison. I'll have to tell you about it someday. A life sentence for someone like me is a frightening thought. So I found a way out. Back to the bosom of my family."  
  
"Leave us alone, Val. I don't want you here. Your son doesn't want you here. Just go away and leave us alone!"  
  
"Now you listen to me carefully, Charlita," Valgur said, tightening his grasp about her throat, enjoying the choking sounds the woman made. "You don't tell me what to do, where to go, or when. I tell YOU. You do as I say, and I let you live. You cross me, even mildly disappoint me, and I teach you the true meaning of suffering. Are we achieving an understanding here?"  
  
Charlita nodded as best she could.  
  
Valgur smiled and let her fall to the floor.  
  
"Good! Now, where is my son?"  
  
Charlita rub her sore throat and fought to get back her breath. She knew she'd be horribly bruised in the morning.  
  
"At a friend's for the weekend."  
  
"Pity. He must be rather tall by now."  
  
"What do you want?"  
  
"As I said, I want to bask in the bosom of my family. And I need a bit of money."  
  
"Call next time. I'll send you a check."  
  
"And miss an opportunity to see your lovely face? Nonsense."  
  
Charlita used the wall to keep her balance, pulling herself back up to her feet. She moved to the sofa and reached for her purse. Valgur was there before her hand could touch the strap, yanking the purse from her grasp.  
  
Valgur emptied the entire contents on the floor and kicked away what he did not want, until he found Charlita's small wallet. He quickly opened it and extracted all the paper money, tossed the wallet back to the floor and commenced counting.  
  
"Is this all you have on hand?"  
  
"I keep the twenties and fifties in a safe behind the Monet. Of course that's all the money I have."  
  
"Out of work again, are we?"  
  
"I have a son to raise! Rent and bills to pay! Not to mention the debts you left behind that I'm still paying off."  
  
"You blame me for everything. Tell me, Charlita, what happened to us?"  
  
"You happened to us. You convinced me to steal for you. You lied to me and you used me. You even tried to use our son. You made me think you were something special, but the only thing special about you is how despicable you are."  
  
"Do you know what your problem is, Charlita dear? You're ungrateful. I went to prison for us. I never implicated you in our little scam."  
  
"YOUR little scam. You never implicated me because you couldn't prove my complicity."  
  
"You didn't exactly come screaming a confession to the police."  
  
"Because I am innocent!"  
  
"You arranged the introduction. Just because you didn't pull the trigger doesn't make you innocent. And I can still make a case for your involvement in the old man's murder. All it would require is one phone call to our conviction-happy District Attorney -"  
  
"You'd be back behind bars and finishing that life sentence before you hang up the phone."  
  
"Perhaps. But you'd lose the one thing that gives your life any meaning and purpose – your son. And I would live forever reveling in your pain."  
  
Charlita shuttered. Tristan was her greatest joy, and the only weapon Valgur had against her.  
  
"Live forever," she spat. "No one lives forever."  
  
"Still don't believe what I told you?"  
  
"About being nine thousand years old? Please."  
  
This was his one sore spot. The one thing Charlita knew she could use to rattle him, to at least buy her time to get out the door or somehow warn Tristan to run. Something he called his elven pride.  
  
"Every story I told you was true!" he demanded. now on the defensive. "About the first age. And later, the age of Man. Where part of that heritage of yours, springs forth, the ancient ways still lingering in your blood. You believed me then. Why do you refuse to believe me now?"  
  
"I was young and foolish, an eighteen year old with an over active imagination and stupid romantic notions that superceded common sense."  
  
"But you did love the stories. Even now, I can see the longing in your eyes. You deeply desire to hear more. About the race of elves."  
  
Go hard for the pride, she told her self. If she can't kill him, she could at least wound his pride.  
  
"Elves ... Santa's little helpers."  
  
"WE WERE WARRIORS!" he screamed, "Assassins. Artisans. Philosophers. Healers. Kings. A higher, more beautiful race there has never been on this planet. Nor shall there ever be again."  
  
"Stealing money from your ex-wife's purse. How the mighty races of elves have fallen."  
  
Valgur reared back and struck Charlita. She flew across the floor and hit the wall. She was dazed, unable to stand, unable to focus her eyes, unable to distinguish whether the words coming from Valgur's mouth were real or imagined.  
  
"I am what I am because of the race of man, and what they've turned this world into. A chaotic, roiling cauldron of sickness and depravity, greed and lust, filth and despair. I am exactly what you have forced me to become."  
  
"Nobody's forcing you..." she began, but the pain in her mouth, the throb of her bleeding split lip, made her shudder and stop.  
  
"The elves should never have given up this world. Should never have gone on to the undying lands. They should've listened to me. We should have stayed. We should have slit the throats of every weak willed man, annihilated his entire worthless race. We were a race of conquerors. We could have so easily obliterated your kind, wiped the memory of your futile existence from history, and laid claim to this world."  
  
"You're crazy," she managed. "need help."  
  
Valgur took a deep breath and calmed himself. He hated losing control this way. It interfered with his ability to scheme.  
  
"What I need is money. More than you've provided here. You've applied for work again, haven't you? Archival work? I saw the newspaper on your coffee table, the ad circled several times in red. Tell me, did we get the job? Are we gainfully employed?"  
  
Charlita said nothing.  
  
Valgur grab her by the chin and squeezed. The pressure he exerted frightened her. She imagined her jaw crumbling under his force. No man should be this strong!  
  
She nodded as best she could.  
  
"Good," said Valgur, and released her. "I imagine he's some old geezer, with lots of old money tucked away in dusty, old places?"  
  
"I'm not going to allow you to steal from him."  
  
"You forget, darling. You're talking to ME. Besides, what will happen to Tristan if don't help me?"  
  
"You leave my son alone."  
  
"If you're dead, he won't be alone. He'll have me."  
  
"Do what you want to me, but stay away from Tristan."  
  
Valgur wandered to the window and looked out and down.  
  
"There he is now."  
  
Charlita hoped his was bluffing, but feared it was true.  
  
"He has grown. Quite handsome, too. Tell me, does he still have his daddy's ears? Or have you taken him to some physician and had him 'fixed?'"  
  
Charlita felt as if a heavy stone had been placed upon her chest. Her breathing had all but ceased.  
  
"Please, Valgur...  
  
"Oh, now it's please. I tell you what. You tell me what I need to know quickly, and I'll be gone before Tristan returns home. Refuse me..."  
  
Valgur pulled a butterfly knife from his pocket and flipped it around several times. Charlita nearly screamed. He pressed the sharp point against her throat.  
  
"...and I'll go looking for him when I'm done with you."  
  
"Please, Val...I'll tell you anything you want."  
  
"I know you will, darling. That's why I'm here. Now, tell me everything you know about your new employer. Starting with his name."  
  
"Greenleaf. His name is Mr. Greenleaf."  
  
* * *  
  
End Chapter 4. Comments are welcomed. Don't forget to floss. 


	5. Chapter 5

Mirkwood Manor Chapter 5  
  
See disclaimer in Chapter 1. Hannon le, everyone for your very kind and encouraging reviews and comments on the first four chapters. Onward.  
  
* * *  
  
He lay gravely wounded, his blood soaking his tunic, and seeping into the ground. How many arrows had found his body? Three that he could see. Maybe more, considering the rain of enemy arrows flying over trees and finding their targets in the bodies of the men who lay dead upon the battlefield, men who guarded the King's entourage.  
  
The pain was intense, excruciating. Still he reached, straining to take hold of one of his knives. His fingers gripped the handle, and though his strength was waning, he would force his way to his feet and fight again.  
  
They had been ambushed and surrounded. Legolas had killed perhaps a dozen of the ones who stood against the King of Gondor and wished him dead for reasons not made clear. Men who spoke against the King and had turned their words into deadly action. For years Aragorn had ruled the kingdom of men and his people had been content. But now a few malcontents, seditionists who claimed to be patriots, had stirred the embers of war in the hearts of the like-minded, and though they were few, they were vicious and surprisingly well organized. Where they lacked in number they made up in blood lust and treachery.  
  
They had attacked his party, this band of seditionists. Legolas surmised that there had to be someone on the inside, someone close to King Aragorn, someone trusted and well informed, in order to have known where they would be at this time. This sojourn to Rivendell was to have been a secret. A respect paid to the last of the Elves, to honor those who had sailed off to the Undying Lands and to bid goodbye to the last to leave. Among them should have been Legolas. This, Legolas had believed, would be the last time he was to see his dearest friend, brother-in-arms, and king of men.  
  
Now Legolas lay bleeding, perhaps even dying. He called to the Valar, and upon every ounce of strength remaining in him and yanked an arrow forcefully from his left shoulder. He suppressed the urge to cry out, then pulled himself to his feet. Four men came rushing toward him. He dispatched of each quickly with a few mere strokes of the blade. He looked for Aragon, and found him, fighting off three at once. Even at Aragon's advanced age, his hair nearly all white, his face seasoned with deep lines, he fought as he always did, with strength and spirited abandon.  
  
And when the seditionists had all been dispatched or subdued as prisoners, Legolas allowed himself to give in to the pain and weakness from blood loss. He collapsed, hitting the ground hard. His eyes were open yet he saw nothing. His lungs were barely filling with air. He thought he heard voices, someone calling his name over and over.  
  
"Aragorn, why do you say my name with such sadness?"  
  
* * *  
  
Charlita was never good with hiding things, or keeping secrets from her son. Tristan could read hidden emotion the way most people read road signs – a single glance that gave way to immediate and unquestionable understanding and action. So even with her back turned, he knew something was wrong when he returned from the store.  
  
"Mom?"  
  
"I'm okay," she said quickly, keeping her back to her son.  
  
Tristan gave the room a quick and thorough look. He dropped the bag and ran from the apartment.  
  
"Tristan, come back!"  
  
He did not.  
  
He searched the halls, behind the fire doors, the room with the trash chute, the laundry room, looking for him.  
  
"Where are you!" he shouted.  
  
Charlita stepped into the hall and watched as her little boy shed his innocence and took on the role of protector.  
  
"He's gone," Charlita called out, "He won't be back."  
  
She hoped he believed her.  
  
Tristan stopped by the elevator and looked at his mom. There was still blood on her lip, now drying, barely covering the swelling. Her eyes were red from tears and her shoulders were hunched with great tension.  
  
"Where did he go?" Tristan cried. "Where did my father go?"  
  
"I don't know. I promise you he won't be back."  
  
"I hope he does come back. I want him to come back."  
  
"Why?" she asked, already afraid she knew the answer. Before he could say another word, she held out her arms to her son. He quickly stepped up to her and wrapped his around her. It was then the boy returned, her innocent child. Hot tears quickly spilled down his cheeks, and she felt him shudder with anger, fear and grief. She could not quell the anger in his heart, but she could soothe the sadness and soon allay his fear. She pulled him away and knelt down to look into his not quite blue, not quite brown eyes.  
  
"If he comes back..." she began.  
  
Tristan pulled away from her.  
  
"If he comes back, I'll kill him for what he's done to you."  
  
"No!" she begged. "Don't talk like that. No talk of killing. You're too young to talk that way."  
  
"But I'm not too young to die."  
  
The realization struck as a knife in her heart. Would Valgur go that far?  
  
"No," she begged again. "I want you far away from him. I don't want him anywhere near you. I'm going to send you away -"  
  
Tristan pushed away from her, the hurt on his face so deep that it nearly shattered her resolve.  
  
"You can't send me away. I won't leave you! You can't make me go."  
  
"Yes, I can. I'm your mother."  
  
Tristan's hurt became anger. She'd seen him blow up like this before. It was a burning, like she's seen in his father's eyes.  
  
"You think I can't take care of you!" Tristan shouted, then backed away and began running.  
  
"Tristan!"  
  
He kept running, down the hallway, through the fire door and down the stairs. She could hear every footfall, reverberating on each metal step, becoming fainter as he grew nearer the ground floor. She wanted so much to run after him, but knew she'd never catch him. Her beaten, aching body would never be able to keep up. She silently prayed he would run around the block a few times to disperse his anger, and come home, sweaty, repentant and hungry. And she also prayed that wherever Valgur was, he would not use this opportunity to grab her son and employ him as a pawn in some sick, twisted scheme.  
  
* * *  
  
The side street was darker than the main drag. Heavy hanging trees obscured and blocked what little light there was from street lamps. And unlike the main drag there were not very many people out walking. As a matter of fact, looking over this shoulder and straining to see before him, he could find no one other than himself out on this chilly night.  
  
He pulled his hat down over his ears and zipped his down jacket all the way up, despite how he hated the way the zipper rub against his chin until the skin became raw. The growing cold was worse.  
  
He hoped he had gotten off at the right bus stop. No one was around whom he could ask for directions. But he soon found the winding path that lead to the house he had only been to once. He walked the path, smelling the richness of the foliage surrounding him, feeling a sense of calm easing the racing thoughts in his head.  
  
Tristan stood before the door and reached up on his toes to grab hold of the heavy doorknocker. He slammed it down three times, then stood back, waiting.  
  
Waiting. No one answered.  
  
He slammed the doorknocker again. This time he heard movement inside, or rather, felt there was movement inside. The door opened.  
  
Legolas stood staring down at the boy with a confused look.  
  
"You said I could visit you anytime. This is anytime."  
  
* * *  
  
Legolas built a fire in the library, and invited Tristan to sit in his favorite red, soft leather couch near the hearth to warm himself.  
  
"So tell me," Legolas began, "what prompts this visit? And is it sanctioned by your mother?"  
  
Tristan shrugged, his typical response. Legolas stood with his back to the roaring fire, his visage taking on the flames' golden glow. Tristan sat back, frightened, but only for a moment.  
  
"How do you do that?" Tristan asked.  
  
"Do what?"  
  
"Glow."  
  
"It is part of what I am."  
  
"What are you?"  
  
"First things first, Tristan. You did not come here without reason. And I will not accept another shrug for an answer."  
  
Tristan nearly shrugged but caught himself.  
  
"You're like my father, but you're not."  
  
"Can you elucidate?"  
  
"Why do you use such big words?"  
  
"I'm sorry," Legolas said. "To elucidate means –"  
  
"I know what it means, it means to spell it out, explain."  
  
"I underestimate you. Forgive me. Please, continue."  
  
Tristan took a moment to collect his young thoughts, and looked Legolas in the eyes.  
  
"He looks like you. The same ears. The same funny way of talking."  
  
"So, you believe your father and I are of the same...heritage."  
  
"I don't know. I've only seen him a couple of times when I was a little kid. Mom never let me talk to him. Which is good, because I don't really want to. He's mean. He hits my mom."  
  
"Is that why you're here? Did your father hurt your mother tonight?"  
  
Tristan saw the look of concern upon Legolas' face, and wondered for a moment if he should be telling his family business to a man nearly a stranger.  
  
Legolas recognized the boy's troubled look, and knelt down to reassure him.  
  
"Tristan, please know that whatever you tell me I will hold in the strictest confidence. It stays within these walls, and I will not dare speak of it without your permission."  
  
"Promise?" Tristan asked for further reassurance.  
  
"Promise. Tell me this. Your father, does he hit you as well?"  
  
"No. But mom's afraid he'll take me from her."  
  
"She loves you very much."  
  
"I know that."  
  
"Why do you come to me with this?"  
  
"I don't know. I just needed somebody to talk to."  
  
"Then I am honored that you chose me. However, I think it would be wise to consult the local authorities on this matter."  
  
"The police?" Tristan asked then sneered. "They won't do anything."  
  
"Perhaps you should reconsider," said Legolas, "rather than wait for something worse to happen. Tell me, what is your father's name?"  
  
"It's a funny name. Valgur. I don't know his last name. Mom said he didn't really have one."  
  
"No, he wouldn't."  
  
Legolas turned away so the boy would not see the subtle change of expression on his face.  
  
* * *  
  
Legolas stared at the sleeping Tristan, who was sprawled out on the large leather couch, his face on the thick yet supple armrest. Gentle snores issued from his partially opened mouth. His body rose and fell with rhythmic breathing. Legolas reached down and removed the boy's hat, marveling at the idea and sight of this half-elfling in his presence, then covered him with a soft woolen blanket the color of damp moss.  
  
He noticed his hands were shaking. It was but a slight tremor, unnoticeable to the human eye but quite disturbing to an Elf. The news that Valgur lived had driven Legolas to the point of distraction. His anger for the dark-haired Elf ran deep, not only because of what Valgur had wrought against Legolas, but against so many innocents, and against his closest friend. More than a few Elves had danced dangerously upon the line between good and evil. Indeed, some had fallen victim to the beguiling nature of evil. Many, fueled by greed and influenced by Men, sought power and thus turned and fed on death and destruction. Those Elves were forever banished from the Realm, or executed, or denied a place with their kind in the Grey Havens.  
  
No Elf, in Legolas' memory, had a heart as sinister and unrepentant as Valgur's. Were it not for Valgur, Legolas would be living life transformed among the Elves, and not hiding among the race of modern man.  
  
He stood before the fireplace and tried to trace his memories back to Valgur, to his betrayal, to his banishment, to the last battle between them. As the memories began to unfold, there came a trilling sound, irritating and insistent, breaking his dark reverie. Legolas looked around the room confused by the interruption. What was causing this? Then he realized what he heard was simply Tristan's cell phone.  
  
Legolas picked up Tristan's discarded jacket from the floor and checked the pockets. His hands found something made of cool metal and plastic. He pulled the ringing phone from the pocket and looked it over, trying to figure out how to work this particular model.  
  
"Hello?" Legolas spoke softly, hoping not to wake Tristan. The phone continued to trill. He held the phone up, shook it, and then flipped it over. "Hello?" he tried again. It continued to make that irritating noise. He shook it again, and the phone flipped open. The trilling ceased. He heard a voice issue from it. A familiar voice. He held the phone to his ear.  
  
"Tristan are you there?" came the voice from inside the phone. "Say something. Tristan, where are you?"  
  
"Hello," said Legolas.  
  
"Who is this?" Her voice was no longer agitated but frightened. "Where's my son?"  
  
"He is here. He's fine. Quite fine."  
  
"Who IS THIS?"  
  
"Miss Huffington?"  
  
"Mr. Greenleaf! Oh, my gosh...is he there? He shouldn't have bothered you. I'm so sorry."  
  
"Apology accepted, thought it is unnecessary."  
  
"I can be there in fifteen minutes to pick him up."  
  
"Nonsense. He's quite comfortable and sleeping soundly. Whatever agitation drove him from home seems now to have run its course. Why not let him remain and take him home tomorrow."  
  
"I don't want to cause any trouble."  
  
"It's no trouble at all."  
  
"Did he...talk to you about what was bothering him?"  
  
He heard the embarrassment in her voice, the fear, but knew not what he could do to reassure her. He hated lying, but knew that full disclosure at this time may not be prudent. He wanted the boy to know that he would under all circumstances keep his word. Tristan's fears and concerns must remain in confidence.  
  
"Actually, he said very little."  
  
There, not too great a lie. Though in his heart he knew that the size of the lie did not make it any less a lie. But he could not bring himself to betray Tristan. Perhaps Miss Huffington would fully disclose all that had transpired with a little prompting.  
  
"Perhaps you could...elucidate."  
  
"We had a fight," she said. "He can be very stubborn."  
  
"A trait inherited from his father, perhaps?"  
  
Silence. Like the forest before a storm, before the winds would come and turn the leaves backwards to warn of the approaching squall.  
  
"Are you sure it's all right for Tristan to be there? I can come get him..."  
  
"He is perfectly safe with me," Legolas assured her. "We'll both see you in the morning. You are coming to work, aren't you?"  
  
"Yes," she said quickly. "I owe you a great debt, Mr. Greenleaf."  
  
"We shall talk more tomorrow."  
  
He did not mean to make is sound so much like a threat. He heard the line disengage, and Legolas closed the cell phone and placed it on the floor near the couch where Tristan slept.  
  
He moved near the fire and stood, determined that he would stay here the entire night, standing watch over Tristan. And whether Tristan would desire it or not, he now had a protector and benefactor in Legolas. For if indeed the child was the product of Valgur's seed, Legolas was sure the boy was in some danger. Legolas also knew that he would soon face Valgur in battle once again. Perhaps, this time, it would be the last.  
  
* * *  
  
It was shortly after midnight, and Valgur was bored. He loved walking the streets at night. He loved the silence. He loved the fear he could instill, when he'd pick someone to follow. Particularly a female. The females of this species were so easily terrified. It no longer offered a challenge, but it did bring him some dark amusement.  
  
The woman he picked tonight was not on foot, but sitting doubled parked in a car that Valgur deeply coveted. A black Mustang convertible. Amazing sounding engine, like a spider queen prior to mating. Or killing. Such power, insufficiently used by the pretty young female that sat behind the wheel talking animatedly on her cell phone. Valgur watched her from just across the street, biding his time, planning his move.  
  
While he waited, he considered his visit to his lovely ex-wife, Charlita. He was sorry when the divorce papers were given him to sign by his court- appointed attorney, while he was serving his first year behind bars. Not sorry that Charlita wished to divorce him, but that she had grown wise to his manipulations, immune to his lies, and weary of his mistreatment. Now he'd have to find a new female. They were so easy, these women. Lavish them with attention, promise them love, threaten them with mystery and the unknown, and they were his to bend or break at will. Play the suffering, misunderstood, loveless soul, and they would leap to be the one to end the suffering, and provide the love and understanding, even if they must sell their own souls to do it. Valgur loved modern human women. So lost and jaded by their independence that they barely recognized when they had been enslaved.  
  
Better than human females when it came to manipulation, thought Valgur, were aged human males. The older and more physically incapacitated, the better. Anytime he found someone in need, there was room for great and skillful manipulation. Play upon the loneliness, the need for others to care for their needs, and Valgur had only to wait until their passing to take without fit or fight whatever he wished. There was sometimes the messy detail of family, who can be quite greedy when it came to an estate, but often these old men had no one, or no one interested enough to give of themselves or their time. So upon their "sad and untimely" demise, Valgur would be there to take what money or possessions he could before the legal authorities would step in and claim whatever was left for the survivors or the state. And he was often instrumental in helping the old men get to their next life, or whatever they believed in. A pillow over the face, and accidental over- or under dose of prescribed medication, or an accidental fall down a wide and winding staircase. So many ways to get what one needs. He wondered what this Mr. Greenleaf would be like, and what method would be most efficient in hurrying him to his afterlife. Charlita did not seem to have much to say about him (and he was inclined to believe her). She said that Greenleaf's fortune seemed to lie inexplicably in old books and papers. He would ask her to steal for him a sample of his so-called fortune so that he could determine its worth and potential wealth. Perhaps it would fetch him a little "getting around" money until he could find the next unwitting benefactor. Right now, his attention was drawn back to the young woman eagerly leaping out of her Mustang.  
  
She was proving to be most cooperative. She headed to the brightly lit ATM to make a late night withdrawal. Valgur loved ATMs. Quite an amazing invention, he believed. That one could simply pass a thin plastic card into the mechanism, punch in a few numbers on a key pad, and be given great amounts of cash for such simple effort both amazed and amused him. Having no card of his own, he often liberated cards from such unsuspecting individuals as the driver of the Mustang convertible. He simply appeared, seemingly out of nowhere – surprise being the key advantage – and then took from them what they had just taken themselves. But not tonight. Valgur like everything he saw. Not just the car, or the cash. The woman was equally worth having. Young, pale, pretty despite her thinness and round ears. Long legs, barely covered in a tiny skirt. Preoccupied by her own beauty and easily distracted by the simplest things. Valgur decided tonight he would have it all.  
  
"Hello," he said, as she was about to climb back into her car. "Could you help me please? I seem to have run out of gas."  
  
"That is so tired and overused," she said, eyes rolling up to the night sky.  
  
"You don't believe me?" he asked, the hurt showing on his face, which had an immediate affect on the young woman's expression.  
  
"What do you want?" she asked.  
  
"Perhaps a lift to my car, or better yet, to a nearby hotel. I'm new in town."  
  
"Where are you from?"  
  
"Far, far away."  
  
She like this. She smiled.  
  
"I like your accent. Are you English?"  
  
"Not exactly. I like your accent too."  
  
Her smile widened.  
  
He took the next shot. "And you have a beautiful smile. Angelic in nature. I know I will be in safe hands."  
  
"Yeah, this place can be dangerous if you don't know your way around. What's your name?"  
  
"Valgur. And yours?"  
  
"Marisol."  
  
"How elegant, how beautiful. An ancient name."  
  
"Really? Does it mean anything?"  
  
"I'm afraid the translation to your tongue would not do it justice. However, your smile does."  
  
She giggled. She was almost there.  
  
Valgur wrapped his long strong arms around himself and faked a shiver.  
  
"Are you cold?" she asked, taking the cue.  
  
"A little. I've been walking for hours now, trying to find someone kind enough to help a stranger in a strange land."  
  
"Good luck," she said.  
  
"Yes. Although I have to admit I understand their hesitation. This world can be a very violent and ugly one at times. So unlike...."  
  
"Unlike what?"  
  
"Where I come from. A land of great peace and uncommon beauty. Ancient, magnificent. Forgive me, I've grown very nostalgic since my arrival, and I have no friends here. I'm quite alone."  
  
"No friends? That sucks."  
  
"Yes," he said mournfully, letting his blue/black eyes drift as if caught in memory, while his blue/black hair floated in the evening breeze, giving only a hint of his exotic elvish ears.  
  
Marisol could not stop looking at him.  
  
Closer, he thought. Almost there.  
  
"It was lovely speaking with you, Marisol. I shall remember your kindness forever."  
  
Valgur turned and began to walk away.  
  
"Wait!" Marisol called out, watching him leave. She got behind the wheel, gunned the engine and drove up to Valgur.  
  
"I can give you a ride."  
  
"It isn't necessary," Valgur said, tempering his tone, drawing the pity from her heart like poison from a wound. "I can walk. But I do deeply appreciate the offer."  
  
"No, get in. Nobody should be alone out here at night. Please."  
  
Ensnared.  
  
Valgur smiled. He knew that was his greatest weapon in the disarming of a woman's common sense. And her heart. He climbed in, throwing his hair back, freely letting his pointed ears show.  
  
"The women of your time are so giving."  
  
"What do you mean, of my time?"  
  
"Did I say time? I meant, of your country."  
  
"Right," Marisol said. She saw him shiver again.  
  
"I'll put the top up and turn on the heat."  
  
"I'd like that," Valgur said. He let his body go limp, as if he was about to pass out, letting the full weight of his body lean against hers for just a second. He knew he was overdoing it, but he loved this game far too much to stop now.  
  
"Hey! You okay?"  
  
"Yes, forgive me. It's the first time I've sat down in hours. I'm quite weary. And I have eaten since...I believe I've lost track."  
  
"You're going to make yourself sick."  
  
"Then I am lucky to have found an angel of mercy to take care of me, if only for an hour."  
  
"Sit back, we'll get you something to eat. Do you have any money?"  
  
"A little. All I have is yours."  
  
"Foreign guys are so sweet."  
  
"Any kindness I have to offer," Valgur said, reaching out to touch her hand with his long tapered fingers, "is merely a reflection of you."  
  
She looked down as she entwined her fingers with his, and gasped. She could have sworn that his hand was glowing.  
  
"Tell me about my name," Marisol said as she began to drive away.  
  
End chapter 5. Hope you'll come back. Please review and respond. 


	6. Chapter 6

Mirkwood Manor Chapter 6  
  
Disclaimer in Chapter 1. Hannon le, everyone, for your exceedingly kind attention. This is an AU, so it slips away from canon. Forgive the obvious oversights, additions and inconsistencies with Master Tolkien's brilliant works, but I'm just writing for the pure enjoyment it of it all. Hope you find some enjoyment in it too! And now: On with the show!  
  
* * *  
  
"Legolas...can you hear me, mellon nin?"  
  
He could hear, yes, but could not at the moment speak, so severe was his agony. He felt hands hurriedly tending his injuries, pulling away his clothing, applying pressure to gushing wounds. The smell of simmering herbs and spilled blood let him know that he was in a house of healing. But these healers were not Elves, for they spoke in the harsh language of Men.  
  
"Aragorn," he managed through clenched teeth, and nearly cried out as someone pulled a deeply embedded arrowhead from his left thigh. He opened his eyes and saw the blurry rush of the healers fighting to staunch the bleeding. He began to tremble as all warmth left his body in a sudden rush.  
  
Strong hands took hold of his left hand and held fast.  
  
Legolas coughed harshly, and blood filled his mouth and spilled down his chin.  
  
Tears fell from Aragorn's eyes.  
  
"Whatever grace I have, whatever strength I have, let it pass to thee..."  
  
"I do not fear death," Legolas whispered, his voice trembling.  
  
"I know, mellon nin. But it is my prayer that you do not die, and that you do not miss the final ship to the undying lands. Live for this, if not for me."  
  
"I cannot leave...not when your life... your kingdom... hang in the balance."  
  
"It is the concern of Men, Legolas. It need not be your concern."  
  
Legolas paused to take offense at this, but then cried out, the offense all but forgotten. His body seized in a fit of agony when cleansing herbs where placed upon his severest wound. Aragorn cringed – he'd never heard his friend scream in such a manner before. He held Legolas' trembling shoulders down, and gave the healers a warning look. They obediently continued their work with a more careful touch.  
  
"I am your friend," Legolas panted, "and... your servant. My life is...yours."  
  
"Then do as I command you. Live. You will be on your feet in short order, and I will see you to Rivendell, even if I must carry you there myself."  
  
"Nay. My place is at your side. Let the argument end here, and let the last ship sale on, for only death will release me from my oath to serve you."  
  
* * *  
  
"Awake and arise."  
  
Tristan stirred and wiped his eyes with his fists.  
  
"Hi," he said groggily.  
  
"Good morning."  
  
"Is my mom here?"  
  
"Not yet, but she will be arriving soon."  
  
"What time is it?" Tristan asked, stiffly pulling himself into a sitting position.  
  
"One quarter after the hour of five."  
  
"Why'd you wake me up so early?"  
  
"It is my ritual to stroll the gardens at first light. Would you join me?"  
  
Tristan pulled himself from the couch and stretched.  
  
"Where's my hat?" he asked, touching his ears, feeling exposed and insecure.  
  
"You need not hide who you are with me," Legolas said, pulling his hair back and proudly revealing his own ears. "Be proud of who you are. Come."  
  
* * *  
  
They walked the gardens slowly and for what had to be close to an hour, in mutual, solemn silence. They watched as the sun rose and settled upon them, bringing the promise of unusual but welcomed warmth to the day. When they arrived the place where Tristan first revealed his true heritage to Legolas, they sat. This would hence become their place of friendship and meeting.  
  
Legolas noticed young Tristan shudder.  
  
"Fear not," Legolas said.  
  
"I'm not afraid."  
  
"Good. I know you have many questions, about me, about yourself. Perhaps about your father. I wish to answer as much as I can in the time we have left."  
  
"Does that mean I can't come back?"  
  
"Of course not," Legolas said, touching the boy's shoulder with a reassuring hand.  
  
"Baren bar lin."  
  
"What?"  
  
"That means my home is your home. You may visit as often as you wish, and whatever we cannot finish today, we shall finish another day. You have my word."  
  
Comfort came quickly to Tristan, who merely stared at Legolas at first, then smile.  
  
"First question?" asked Legolas.  
  
"Can you do that glow thing again?"  
  
"I can. And so can you, though you are probably not yet aware of it."  
  
Legolas allowed his true nature to shine. Tristan smiled.  
  
"That is so cool."  
  
It was Legolas' turn to smile now.  
  
"Next question?"  
  
"Is your name really Mr. Greenleaf?"  
  
"It is merely a loose translation of my true name."  
  
"Which is?"  
  
"Legolas."  
  
"Legolas," he said, then repeated it, letting the foreign sound of it roll around until he became used to it.  
  
"Legolas...I like it. So...what are you? And am I like you?"  
  
"We are part of a ancient race of being known as Elf."  
  
"Elf? Like, elf? Nuh-uhn! Elves are little guys with green shorts and funny voices, like in children's books! You don't look like that. And I don't either!"  
  
"Nor did any Elf I ever met. Children's literature has done much to malign and degrade the image of the Elf, to my sincere irritation. Reduced us to harmless, ignoble caricatures. But the Elves of my time, whose blood you share, were mighty warriors, noble kings, artisans and philosophers. They were beautiful creatures, lithe and elegant, strong and brave, with a profound love for nature and all its glory that ran deep in our souls. Our very strength came from nature - the trees, the grass, the soil, the water and the rock, from the air and the elements. It would be arrogant to say that we were among the most beautiful in all creation, yet, it would not be far from true. For thousands and thousands of years, we lived, fought, hunted, and some even died, in a world that no longer exists."  
  
"What do you mean, some died? Everybody dies."  
  
"And many did. On the field of battle. Or worse, fell victim to a broken heart. All others now reside in a place that is unattainable, called the Grey Havens, or the Undying Lands. You see, the Elf is immortal."  
  
"You don't die?"  
  
"Not as humans do, from illness, or age. We can die, as I said, from a wound, or a wounded heart. But otherwise, yes, we live for a very, very long time."  
  
"How old are you?"  
  
"It's difficult to calculate by your standards of measuring time, but if I were to estimate, I would say...nine thousand, one hundred and four years. Thereabout."  
  
Tristan's mouth fell open. As before, Legolas prompted him to close it with a finger to his chin. Only this time, his mouth fell open again.  
  
Legolas laughed.  
  
"So, you'll never die?"  
  
"I may. I may not. I will not know until the moment arrives."  
  
"And what about me?" Tristan asked, a little afraid to hear the answer. "Will I live as long as you?"  
  
"You may. Your human half makes you vulnerable to all the maladies that befall humans. Your Elf half, however, could provide you with unusual strength and longevity. You have yet to be tested. Come," Legolas prompted Tristan as he stood, "no more questions."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Let your senses tell you."  
  
Tristan looked confused at first, but then stood and closed his eyes, his face showing his hard concentration. Suddenly his eyes opened wide and he smiled.  
  
"My mom's here!"  
  
Tristan took off in a shot ahead of Legolas, racing back into the halls of Mirkwood Manor.  
  
"Na-den pedim ad, Tristan," Legolas whispered. "Until we speak again."  
  
* * *  
  
Tristan opened the heavy main door for his mother and leaped into her arms. Charlita was so grateful she did not wish to let him go. Eventually she did, and gave her son a good long look.  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
He nodded enthusiastically.  
  
"Do you have any idea how angry you made me? Or how frightened I was? Don't you ever do that to me again! Go running off, no phone call, no nothing. Do you understand me, Tristan?"  
  
"Yes, he said, sheepishly.  
  
"And bothering Mr. Greenleaf...you know, he could fire me for this."  
  
"He won't. He told me baren bar lin!"  
  
"What does that mean?"  
  
"It means it's okay."  
  
"It's not okay as far as I'm concerned. Understand?"  
  
Tristan nodded, wanting to move on from the subject.  
  
"You still mad at me?" Charlita asked, this being her turn to ask sheepishly.  
  
"Not anymore. You mad at me?"  
  
"No," she said, "not anymore." She gave him another hug.  
  
Tristan touched her mother's still swollen lip with the tip of his finger.  
  
"Does that hurt?"  
  
"Not much. Where's Mr. Greenleaf?"  
  
"In the garden."  
  
"Good," she said, looking around, not wishing to be seen by him.  
  
"And where's your hat?"  
  
Automatically the boy's hands shot up to cover his ears. And then he thought better of it, and dropped his hands, proudly letting his ears show.  
  
"I don't need it here."  
  
"So, Mr. Greenleaf knows?"  
  
"Yes. He said I should be proud of who I am."  
  
"Haven't I always told you that myself?"  
  
"Yeah, he but says it cooler."  
  
"Right," she said, shaking her head. She handed him one of two duffle bags she had brought with her.  
  
"There's fresh clothing, your toothbrush, and your school books. I want you to go get cleaned up. I'll put you in a cab to school."  
  
"Cool!"  
  
"You're not the one paying for it. Now get going."  
  
Tristan took hold of the bag and ran up the wide steps, taking two at a time. Charlita smiled at how agile and swift her son was. She had always marveled at how he was never as clumsy as other boys his age. It went beyond athletic. It was more like physically elegant. Not exactly words one should generally use to describe one's son, but nothing else seemed to fit the bill.  
  
Once he had disappeared, Charlita took stock of her surroundings, looking carefully around the foyer, listening for signs of her employer. Remembering his stealth, she knew it would do her little good as he could appear seemingly out of nowhere.  
  
She moved as quietly as she could down the hall to the archive room. The door was closed – good! He would not be inside. She entered, turned on the light, and closed the door softly behind her. She would have to move quickly, not because time was of the essence, but because if she did not act now, in the moment, she knew she would soon lose all nerve.  
  
Valgur had demanded that she bring him some sample of her employer's collection – something he could use to determine its value. It took all that she could muster to simply choose a piece – an intricately detailed map with dried brown edges – and gingerly roll it up and slip it into her bag. She knew it would be a mistake to put Valgur off. Better to show him and hope he would find no value in it, and pray he leave her alone due to lack of interest. But she hated betraying her employer this way. She recalled, when first they met, the way he implied how precious his collection was to him. Were he to find out she was stealing from him, even if it was to protect him, and to save herself and her son from Valgur's wrath, she was certain that she would be summarily dismissed and her reputation despoiled. Yet to deny Valgur was to invite great pain. This was a lesson she had no intention of learning once again.  
  
* * *  
  
"Wakey wakey..."  
  
Marisol prodded Valgur with a finger. She didn't really want him to wake up. She enjoyed lying there and watching him.  
  
Where had he come from, this oddly beautiful creature, this otherworldly man whose charm was enticing and yet also a bit creepy? Marisol had always been attracted bad boys - destructive, incorrigible, unrepentantly selfish men whose objective was only to satisfy the craving of the immediate, the now. It suited her tastes because that too was her only objective. In truth, the worse they were, the harder she fell for them. But more times that not, she found herself left behind, abandoned, forgotten. She made no excuses, nor did she harbor some deep desire to change one day. She was perfectly happy to continue as she always had, haphazardly escaping ruin and death for the thrill and mystery bad boys offered.  
  
She was chilled by his strange beauty – it both attracted and frightened her, making her stomach flutter, making her head light as heralding a fainting spell. His skin was so pale that it almost seemed to glow. His eyes – what color were they? – mesmerized her. Even with bed head he was beautiful – every thick, blue-black strand of hair was perfect even as it was out of place.  
  
Valgur stirred and opened his eyes. Sleeping was not usually not so often essential, not for an Elf. However Valgur had adopted many bad human habits such as drinking in excess and other acts of debauchery, often suffering their ill effects as badly as humans did. He required some downtime to recuperate and regenerate.  
  
Valgur sat up quickly, shaking out the cobwebs in his brain and then getting immediately out of bed. He grabbed his clothes and began dressing, no thought or word of greeting to Marisol.  
  
"I thought we could go get breakfast," Marisol said, determined to be acknowledged.  
  
Valgur continued to dress, not even looking Marisol's way.  
  
"Hey..."  
  
Nothing.  
  
She reached for one of her spike heeled shoes on the floor and threw it at Valgur. Valgur turned quickly and caught the shoe without effort. His eyes burned into hers.  
  
Marisol cringed.  
  
"I don't like being ignored," she said, "not after what we did last night."  
  
"Last night," he said, buttoning his shirt, "is over. A new day has dawned. And I must now take my leave."  
  
"Will you call me?"  
  
Valgur didn't answer.  
  
Marisol slid out of bed, using the sheet to cover herself.  
  
"Look, last night you were all, 'please help me, I'm a poor lost lamb' and this morning you're all acting like a...like a jerk! And all that stuff you said, about being from an ancient race, about being a warrior and all that crap, you almost had me believing you."  
  
"Actually it was all true. I used it to get you into bed. In retrospect, however, I should have simply settled for taking your money."  
  
Marisol picked up her other shoe and moved to throw it.  
  
"Do that, and you shall regret it."  
  
She believed him, and let the shoe fall from her hand.  
  
"I need a one last favor," Valgur said.  
  
"Die."  
  
"Not anytime soon, love. I need your car keys."  
  
"Kiss my - "  
  
Valgur was across the room and had the woman's head in a vice grip before she could say another word. She squirmed, tried to scream, but could not.  
  
"Perhaps you did not hear me. I NEED YOUR CAR KEYS. Now please, tell me where they are."  
  
Marisol pointed a shaky hand to the dresser by the door.  
  
"Lovely," Valgur said.  
  
He pulled her close, his smooth cheek brushing against hers.  
  
"I wish I could say I had a good time, but among my many faults, flaws and bad habits, lying to a woman is not one of them. You're a spoilt, self- centered, arrogant little pig of a girl, good for one toss and not a particularly good one. The women of your time are so unschooled in the ways of love. So selfish, so awkward, and not to mention boorishly loud. As I will never have back the time I wasted with you, I demand payment in the form of your little black automobile. Fair enough?"  
  
He forced her head up and down in a farcical agreement.  
  
"Good! Now the time has come to say goodbye."  
  
Despite the pressure of Valgur squeezing her face, she uttered a common and descriptive curse. The expletive made him smile.  
  
And then he twisted her head quickly until he heard her neck snap, and felt the full weight of her body go limp.  
  
Valgur let her body drop to the floor, then headed for the door, grabbing the keys from the dresser.  
  
He blew Marisol's dead body a kiss, smiled, and left.  
  
* * *  
  
"Miss Huffington?"  
  
She jumped and barely suppressed a shout at the sound of her name, at the sound of his voice. All day she had managed to avoid contact with her employer. And now, just as she was about to leave, she had hesitated, pulling from her bag the map she had determined she would sneak out of the manor. Wondering if she should return it to its place, and risk Valgur's volatile temper, or keep it and leave, hoping her employer would not be the wiser. If only she had not hesitated, felt the weight of guilt for what she was about to do, she would have been long gone by the time Mr. Greenleaf had appeared. She looked down at her hands. The edges of the old map had practically turned to dust, coating her fingers. She quickly blew the residue away.  
  
"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come in."  
  
She did not turn around to face him, but slipped the map back into her bag and pretended to keep busy about her work, hoping to discourage a conversation.  
  
"I meant not to startle you," Legolas spoke as he continued into the room. "My apology. I've come to look in on your progress. How goes the work?"  
  
"It goes well," she said, keeping her back to him, not wanting him to see her face. The bruising had darkened as the day grew older, as it usually did before eventually improving and fading.  
  
"Perhaps you will show me?"  
  
"I was just about to leave," she said, praying he would not keep her. "Perhaps tomorrow, or better, next week, when the system is online and ..."  
  
"Turn around."  
  
She froze where she stood.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Turn around. Please."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because, it is difficult to carry on a conversation with your back."  
  
There was not much she could do but follow his wishes. She had an excuse in place – plausible denial – but knew deep down that he would not easily accept it or agree to be fooled. She swallowed loudly, then turned slowly, eyes on the floor. When she faced him, her eyes rolled up to meet his.  
  
She heard his breath catch in his throat, saw how his lips parted and eyes widened in deep distress as concern dawned on his face.  
  
"I know it looks terrible," she said, forcing a smile, "but it looks worse than it actually is, I assure you."  
  
"Then you will not mind sharing with me how your injuries came to be."  
  
"It's very silly, and very embarrassing. I feel stupid telling you, really," she said. "But I opened the door...the door to my apartment...my front door...last night. And I forgot to close it. So I turned, and ran into it. Right into the door. So stupid. Busted my lip good. And the side of my face. Tiniest cut. Nothing really."  
  
Just as she thought, he would not easily buy into her lie. Not that she was particularly convincing. Be she would hold fast to her story, and not let him sway her toward a confession.  
  
"Indeed? Hm. You have a very dangerous door," he said.  
  
She nodded, awkwardly avoiding his intense gaze.  
  
"And how did your door managed to bruise your neck?"  
  
Her heart leaped with fear of discovery. A hand shot to her throat to hide the obvious bruises, a necklace of red and purplish finger marks. She had been so careful to wear a scarf on the way in to work to hide the injury, but had taken it off a few hours earlier as the warmth of the day crept into the archive. She had meant to put it on again, but had forgotten.  
  
"I will ask you only once what has happened," he said, "and I will not coerce an answer from you. If you say I should mind my own business, I shall. But if you choose to answer, I demand the truth."  
  
"I've told you the truth."  
  
"Who did this to you?" he insisted.  
  
"You said you would not coerce me."  
  
"Charlita," he said, using her given name for the very first time since their introduction, "do not let stubborn pride be your undoing."  
  
Charlita turned away, covering her face with her hands. She fought not to cry, not to let her emotions get the best of her. But she failed.  
  
"I could tell you," she whispered, "but what would be the point? This is the consequence for a mistake made long ago. And there is little you or anyone else can do about it."  
  
Legolas took a step closer.  
  
"Sometime, help is available in the least likeliest of places."  
  
She thought about it – how easy it would have been to blurt out everything she had been carrying for so long, purge her system of the evil infection that was Valgur. But knowing his capabilities when it came to violence, she feared for the safety of the man that stood before her.  
  
"Miss Huffington," Legolas said, returning to a more formal tone, "if you fear for my safety, I can assure you, your fear is unfounded. Your tormentor poses little threat to me."  
  
"How do you do that? Read my mind like that?"  
  
"It is your face I read, a face which reveals the very core of your heart. For good or ill, you can hide little from anyone. Not even what lies hidden in your bag."  
  
"What?"  
  
Legolas held out his hand for the bag she clutched. She opened it, and removed the stolen map.  
  
"I'm so sorry," she said in a whisper, "truly sorry."  
  
She placed the map in his hands. Tears spilled down her cheek.  
  
He stared at it, not quite sure how to proceed, or what was appropriate to say. Anger began to burn within him, but the need to understand her motives outweighed the need to seek retribution.  
  
Charlita took a deep breath, and raced for the door.  
  
"Where are going?"  
  
"Home," she said. "I assume I am fired."  
  
More of a statement than a question.  
  
"You assume too much. I insist you remain at least until you have adequately explain yourself."  
  
She stopped short of reaching for the door then turned back to Mr. Greenleaf.  
  
"I can't. You won't understand. I can't explain further. Do not ask me. It's all so complicated, so out of control, that ..."  
  
Charlita nearly choked, indeed, nearly fainted, as Legolas pulled back his thick platinum hair, revealing his perfect, pointed ears. He glowed, ever so slightly, making Charlita gasp. She fell back against the door, her legs gone weak, threatening to give out from under her.  
  
"Stay," he implored, "for it appears we both have much explaining to do."  
  
* * *  
  
End Chapter 6  
  
Thank you for your kind attention. Please come back and read chapter 7 when it's up. And please, by all means, review. Your comments are deeply appreciated and make me a better writer. Not to mention a happier one. 


	7. Chapter 7

Mirkwood Manor Chapter 7  
  
Hannon le, everyone, for your exceedingly kind comments, and forgive the delay in getting this next chapter published. This is an AU, so it slips away from canon quite frequently, I'm sure. Forgive the obvious oversights, additions and inconsistencies with Master Tolkien's brilliant works, but I'm just writing for the pure enjoyment it of it all. Hope you find some enjoyment in it too! And now, with your kind indulgence: On with chapter 7!  
  
His strength was returning slowly. He was far from fully restored. The injuries were massive, and he had come very close to giving in to shadow. There was no greater pity than when an immortal creature such as an elf, who might otherwise live until the earth itself gasped its last breath, succumbed to death by gruesome chance.  
  
Legolas pulled his tunic on gingerly, careful not to aggravate the wounds that were wrapped tightly and still healing. His tunic hung loser on him than before, the loss of body mass an indication of the toll taken on his suffering body. Over his tunic came his armor. Legolas hugged one arm closely to his body, still feeling a weakness in the limb, as he reached with the other for his quiver. It seemed heavier than he remembered, but he knew full well that once he returned to the heat of battle this, as well as his aching body, would be of little concern to him. He was determined to face his enemy again. He had a desperate score to settle.  
  
"Master Elf," one of several Healers spoke before Legolas could drag himself completely out the door, "it is unwise for you to be moving about. Your wounds require more time."  
  
"An elf needs little time for recuperation," he said with wavering conviction.  
  
"True, under normal circumstances. But you have suffered more than most, Master Elf."  
  
Legolas knew this was true. And he felt it. But he also knew he had little choice. Time was crucial, for if he did not act swiftly his prey would depart to places unknown and justice for the vile attack against Aragorn, the King of Gondor, his life-long friend would never be served.  
  
"My suffering is of little consequence," he said, willing his old strength to return. He slung his quiver across his shoulder, biting back the urge to groan as pain radiated through every fevered muscle. He felt his body shudder, but he fought to hide this from the Healer.  
  
"King Aragorn will be greatly displeased. He would never allow this," the Healer humbly rebuked Legolas.  
  
"He shall come to accept it. Have them fetch my horse, and make ready for my departure."  
  
"Is it not considered rude in your culture to stare?"  
  
Charlita could not tear her eyes away from him. She could barely speak, or hardly breathe. Her mind was flooded with rushing images of dense green forests and leaves shining with dew, moss-covered mountains and streams with the purest water flowing swiftly over pearlescent stones. Her heart skipped as she imagined the sound of swords clashing, her body shook at the thought of horses' hooves thundering across the plain, racing to the horizon. Where did these images come from?  
  
She backed away from him, fear suddenly making her whole body tremble. She kept backing away until she made impact with a wall.  
  
"Stay away," she said in a nervous whisper.  
  
"Do not fear me," Legolas said, reaching out a glowing hand.  
  
"NO! Don't touch me!"  
  
"I am not Valgur."  
  
"But you are like him."  
  
"We are both elfkind, true, but I am not in manner like him. I would hope you knew that by now."  
  
Somewhere in her heart and her mind, she did. Still, she raised a hand, demonstrating her intense desire for distance.  
  
"I need a moment," she said. "Let me think for a moment."  
  
She felt her legs weakening, her knees buckling. The room suddenly became a gray fog. She felt her body begin to slide toward the floor. Strong, sure arms took hold of her, pulling her back from the brink, and urging her to a chair to sit. She did not fight him. Her hands found his arms and held tight. The muscles were like stone. The strength she felt was both tremendous and alarming.  
  
"I'm okay," she said, willing him away from her.  
  
"You swooned. Be still until the faintness passes."  
  
"No, I'm okay," Charlita insisted, letting go of his arms and pulling away from him.  
  
"Does Tristan know about you?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"He kept it from me."  
  
"That is my fault," Legolas confessed, "I asked him to keep it secret for a time. Forgive the deception."  
  
"No wonder he came here. No wonder he trusts you. It's true. All true. About the ages. About Middle Earth. About the elves."  
  
Legolas nodded once.  
  
"The maps, the books," she said, head still spinning, "they're from then."  
  
"Yes," said Legolas, "as am I."  
  
"This is too incredible."  
  
"Stay here," Legolas insisted, "and I will fetch water for you."  
  
She watched him as he left. She considered standing and running, getting out of there as fast as she could and getting as far away as possible. But the room was still undulating and she was slowly losing her apprehension. Now she wanted answers.  
  
Legolas returned as he promised with a small glass half filled with water. She took it, murmuring a thank you and took a sip from it. She'd always wondered why, when people fainted, they were offered water. Now she knew. It gave one a focus, and allowed one time to collect their thoughts.  
  
"How many more of your kind are there?" she asked.  
  
Legolas' eyes, which were once bright, seemed to dull at the thought of this. Sadness claimed his expression.  
  
"No more, I believe it is safe to say. All that remain stands before you. And Valgur, of course."  
  
"How do you know about Valgur?"  
  
"Tristan spoke of him. He left out many details. Perhaps you could provide more."  
  
"How much did he tell you?" "Enough to know that you are in great danger, so long as you have dealings with him. You were stealing from me at his behest, were you not?"  
  
Charlita's head dipped slightly to hide her renewed shame.  
  
"What does Valgur know about me?"  
  
"Nothing. I told him you were an eccentric old man...."  
  
Her voice trailed off, as her eyes began to examine Legolas' unlined face.  
  
She asked in a fearful whisper, "How old are you?"  
  
"As old as he," Legolas confessed. "Nay, older, if memory serves."  
  
"This is insane."  
  
"But nonetheless true. Please, Miss Huffington. I would have you tell me everything you know of Valgur, and all you suspect."  
  
"And what will you tell me in return?"  
  
"In time, all the truth there is. For now, some small ignorance of the truth will serve to keep you alive."  
  
She told him everything. How she and Valgur had met. Their short-lived marriage. The schemes and scams perpetrated on the innocent and unsuspecting. The violence that tainted their relationship and destroyed her trust in virtually everyone. The fear of losing her son. The fear she carries still at the mere thought of Valgur. And how his resurfacing had torn her orderly world apart.  
  
And now, he wanted to know what might be worth stealing from the elderly Mr. Greenleaf. Charlita was surprised to see her employer smile a bit at hearing this part of the tale.  
  
"So little changes over time," Legolas said, "even after several millennia. Avarice, deceit, betrayal."  
  
Legolas unrolled the map that Charlita was going to take to Valgur and gave it a long look.  
  
"This will not do," he said, and tossed the map gently back to the table. He picked up a different map. He smiled.  
  
"Give him this one instead."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"See if he remembers it. It is a place forever etched in my memory. I am willing to gamble that it will be the same for Valgur. He will doubtlessly ask you many questions. Do not answer him. Instead, tell him to seek his own answers. Insist that he come and see for himself."  
  
"You want him to come here?"  
  
"If he wishes to come, yes, let him. Let the map be the lure. Let him come and I will rid you and your son of Valgur forever."  
  
"Wait," Charlita said, leaping to her feet, her heart racing now. "You're not going to kill him are you?"  
  
Legolas did not answer.  
  
"I won't be a party to this. I won't be an accessory to murder. Even if it is Valgur."  
  
"You still love him?"  
  
"No!" Charlita insisted, a little too harshly. Had he hit a nerve?  
  
"You do wish to be rid of him, do you not?"  
  
"Yes. Can't you just scare him off, make him go away?"  
  
"The Valgur I remember would never respond to mere scare tactics. Charlita, do you trust me?"  
  
"How can I trust you? I don't even know if Greenleaf is your real name."  
  
"Call me by my true name, but only when you are here. Anonymity is crucial to my existence. Without it, I am lost. My name is Legolas. Now, will you trust me?"  
  
This time she nodded.  
  
"Then this is what you must do."  
  
She did exactly as Legolas explained. She arranged for Tristan to be returned from school to Mirkwood Manor. Once he was secure, she would venture home long enough to leave the map given her by Legolas in an envelope taped to her front door. She would return to the safety of the Manor, and await Valgur's undoubtedly frantic call on her cell phone. She would not yet reveal their whereabouts, until Legolas had time to devise a more intricate plan. For now, they would settle for seeing Valgur become ensnared by curiosity and fear.  
  
She sat in stillness and silence, absorbed in the calm that settled upon Mirkwood Manor. Would that her own home could feel this tranquil, especially in the midst of life's many intrusions and mishaps. She felt unusually safe within the walls, knowing that just out in the garden were Legolas, her employer and benefactor, and her son. She imagined they had much to discuss, considering their common ancestry.  
  
Beside her on the soft cushion was her cell phone. She was to answer it only if Legolas was in the room, so that he could monitor her responses and thereby choose a plan of action based on the conversation.  
  
It was still fifteen minutes until the eighth hour, and her calm was beginning to give way to restlessness. She stood and moved to the glass doors that lead to the garden. The path was milky white from a close and generous moonlight. She stepped outside and felt the chill air surround her. She wrapped her arms around herself and began to quietly, slowly follow the path, hoping to see somewhere in the dark her son, and that he was fine in the presence of the elf who had now become her boy's mentor.  
  
She heard not only voices, but the sound of hard metal clanging together. She picked up her pace to follow the sounds, then stepped behind high leafy hedges to spy on – or rather, observe – her son and the former Mr. Greenleaf.  
  
Despite the cold, Legolas wore no shirt or jacket. In Legolas' hands were two long knives – white handled, gleaming, sharp. He stepped, struck out, stepped back, struck an imaginary foe behind him, turned and blocked an imaginary blow and struck again. She watched this display of grace and ferocity, elegance and deadly force with wonder and excitement. His muscles rippled and dance with each move, and his long white hair took to the air with every turn of his head. His face showed a determination and discipline she had never witnessed before. And then he stopped.  
  
Despite the quickness of his deadly routine, he was neither winded nor was he sweaty. He flipped the blades deftly, with a cockiness common to every male she'd ever met. He then offered the blades to Tristan.  
  
"No!" Charlita called out before she could stop herself.  
  
Tristan and Legolas turned at the sound of her voice. Charlita came out of hiding.  
  
"What are you teaching my child?"  
  
"I'm not a child!" Tristan cried in his defense.  
  
"I'm teaching him," Legolas said, "how to defend himself."  
  
"Not with those things," she said, pointing to the long blades.  
  
"Mom!"  
  
"Don't "mom" me! You could hurt yourself with those things. I won't allow it."  
  
"As you wish," Legolas said, and moved the blades from Tristan's reach.  
  
"No, Legolas!"  
  
"She is your mother, and I must respect her wishes as they pertain to you."  
  
"No!" Tristan cried, turning angrily to his mother. "When are you going to learn to trust me?"  
  
Charlita had no answer. It was the fear of every mother. The fear that her child was no longer a child. The realization that she could no longer adequately protect him. She could put her foot down, deny him this opportunity to find out how strong he could be, make him feel small and inconsequential. Or she could take a risk, let him try. Somehow she knew that Legolas would allow no real harm to come to him.  
  
"Will you protect him?" she asked, needing to be sure.  
  
"With my very life," Legolas promised.  
  
"All right," she acquiesced. "Just don't do anything stupid. As if this isn't stupid enough."  
  
"Cool!" Tristan said, and reached for the knives.  
  
"Not yet," Legolas warned. "Calm yourself first. These are dangerous weapons, the chosen weapon of elven assassins. They are lethal, sharper than you can imagine. Do not let your zeal to use them be your undoing."  
  
Tristan nodded and took a deep, calming breath. His face became unstressed, his body still and sure as he reached for the blades Legolas offered.  
  
Charlita heard her breath catch in the back of her throat as her son took hold of the knives. She watched as Tristan held them out in a defensive stance, one high, one low, as Legolas instructed. She marveled as her son followed Legolas's every instruction, duplicating the exact routine she had witnessed Legolas performing. The blades seemed quite natural in her half- elven son's hands, more natural than a baseball bat or a video game control. She was amazed and proud. And a little frightened.  
  
The moment was broken by soft chimes from far away, inside the house.  
  
"My cell phone," Charlita said, dread in her voice. "Valgur."  
  
"Inside," Legolas said, taking the knives from Tristan and ushering them back to the Manor.  
  
"Try to sound natural," Legolas said, as he slipped into a button down shirt. He hovered just behind Charlita where she sat on the sofa, and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.  
  
"I am here," he said, hoping to boost the woman's courage rather than inhibit her performance.  
  
Charlita nodded and pressed the talk button on the cell.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"WHERE ARE YOU?"  
  
Charlita nodded to Legolas, just to confirm that the caller was indeed Valgur.  
  
"I had to leave. Bit of an emergency. Did you get the envelope?"  
  
"I did. I need to see you. Where are you?"  
  
"I'm not coming home tonight. I'm staying with a friend."  
  
"Listen to me, Charlita, and listen well. You are to leave wherever you are and come home now. I need to see you. I need to talk to you about this Mr. Greenleaf person."  
  
"What do you need to know?"  
  
"Where did he get this map?"  
  
"I don't know. I'm just archive the stuff for him. I can ask him, but he's pretty closed-mouth about his precious maps and books. I can't even understand the language, and I have a BA in ancient languages. Do you know what it says?"  
  
Charlita looked up at Legolas. He nodded and gave her a thin smile.  
  
"Nevermind," Valgur snapped. "I need to know where he got this, and if there are any more. I also need to know everything you can tell me about him."  
  
"Why? Do you think he may be an old acquaintance?"  
  
There was a brief silence. Charlita looked to Legolas for strength to continue.  
  
"Listen, you little twit," Valgur said in a low, angry voice, "if I find out you're playing me..."  
  
"Playing you? Val, I don't understand. What is the significance of that old map?"  
  
"JUST DO AS I SAY! And tell me where I can find this Greenleaf. I want to know where he lives, what he does. EVERYTHING!"  
  
"The connection breaking up, can you hear me now?"  
  
"Don't play with me, Charlita."  
  
"I'm sorry, my phone's dying. The battery's almost spent. What did you say?"  
  
"If you don't tell me what I want, you'll be the one that's dying, darling Charlita. And that is a promise I will enjoy keeping. And don't think for a moment I'll spare Tristan just because he's my little whelp. I'll make you watch him die first. Now, bring me more maps. Bring me whatever you can fit into that cheap bag of yours and bring them home tomorrow. And no leaving anything pinned to the door. I want to see you in the flesh, as it were. Understand me?"  
  
"Yes, I understand. I'll see you tomorrow."  
  
With that the line went dead.  
  
Charlita looked up at Legolas with eyes that could not hide her fear.  
  
"He wants more maps. He wants to know everything about you. He says he'll kill me if I don't do as he says."  
  
"He's not very original, is he?"  
  
"He also said," she began, unable to stop the single tear from rolling down her cheek, "that he'll kill Tristan, that he'll make me watch him die."  
  
Legolas felt the dread radiating from her. He knew nothing else mattered more to her than the life of her son. He knew not what he could do to set her mind at rest. He only knew that he could not fail. Not fail her, Tristan, or himself.  
  
"I hope you know what you're doing, Mr. Green...Legolas," she said, now as if she were reading his mind.  
  
Legolas moved to the double doors that lead to the garden and looked up into the darkness. The moon was higher, farther away than earlier.  
  
"The moon is veiled," Legolas whispered, though loud enough for Charlita to hear. "A shadow grows close. Darkness draws near."  
  
"That's not very reassuring," Charlita said.  
  
"Fear not. Where there is darkness, there will always be light. Eventually. You'll be safe here. Come. Let me show you to your room."  
  
Valgur was incensed. He threw the phone against the wall, and then systematically began to destroy Charlita's apartment. What he could not break, he used to break other things. What he could not tear apart, he merely stomped upon, ruining with the dirt from his boots. When his anger was spent, as well as his suddenly violent burst of energy, he again turned to the map, which now lay upon a heap of broken vases and picture frames on the floor.  
  
He picked it up gingerly, knowing that the aged parchment could easily crumble to dust. Not that this map could garner him one single piece of paper money. Nor would he sell it if an offer were upon the table. This map offered him a piece of his distant past.  
  
Centuries, millennium had past, and still he remembered vividly the elf that stood against him at the shores of the land of Lhun. The proud, self- appointed guardian of the King of Gondor, who had hunted him down, accused him – rightly – of treachery, and, despite serious injury, challenged Valgur to a fight to the death. All while the last ships were pushing back, away from the shores. Knowing that he himself would remain among the vile race of men for the rest of his long days made him fight against this self-righteous, blindly heroic kinsman all the harder. He worked quickly to dispatch the elven assassin, only to collapse from a wound that pierced his heart and should have killed him outright. He bled into the sand, watching his immortal life slipping away. His only joy was knowing that he had heaped equal pain and suffering upon his foe. He watch his blood mingle with his enemy, and knew that even as he was dying, so too, was the blond elf, Legolas.  
  
But fate had taken a strange turn in Valgur's favor. Valgur did not die. He dragged himself away from the battlefield, and fell into deep unconsciousness in the middle of a narrow road not far from Brandywine. He awoke from many days of coma and found himself under the gentle care and ministrations of a young and human widow whose name he had forgotten, but whose heart had suffered long under the yoke of loneliness. His story – lies – fell upon desperate ears eager for adventure, and soon he'd learned many a lesson about the frailty of the human heart.  
  
As for his foe, could only assume that death had found him and claimed him.  
  
But now, he knew the truth. Now, clenched in his trembling hands was proof positive that his enemy, like him, was very much alive.  
  
"Mr. Greenleaf, indeed," Valgur snorted, and raced out of the apartment.  
  
Valgur would finally get what he had merely dreamed of all his long life.  
  
To mete out his final revenge against the Prince of Mirkwood.  
  
End chapter 7  
  
Comments welcome. Share chocolate. 


	8. Mirkwood Manor Chapter 8

Mirkwood Manor Chapter 8  
  
_This is an AU, so it slips away from canon quite frequently, I'm sure. Forgive the obvious oversights, especially as it deals with the geography of Middle Earth, and forgive any additions and inconsistencies with Master Tolkien's brilliant works. I'm just about having fun here, and hope to offer a bit to you. Please comment if it pleases you to do so! And now, with your kind indulgence: On with chapter 8._

_   
  
He rode for days, unsure if he were even traveling in the right direction, following clues, witness accounts and sometimes only Elven intuition, hoping to find his sworn enemy.  
  
Valgur.  
  
His wounds were slow in healing, aggravated by his activity. Every jarring step his horse took sent tendrils of pain through his body. He spent the first few days of his journey sitting bent at the waist, with his body resting against his powerful horse, in and out of consciousness. He thanked the Valar over and over again for a horse as smart as his. On his second night Legolas fell from his mare. He remembered hitting the ground, remembered feeling too weak to pull himself to his feet, yet had no recollection of how he ended up back upon his horse. He continued on, determined to let nothing stop him from finding his prey.  
  
As he neared the Brandywine border Legolas spied a small home built of thatch. An old fire smoldered in front of the house, evidence that someone was recently there. He had need for water, not only for himself but for his horse.  
  
He drew a deep breath and dismounted, steadied himself and moved cautiously toward the dark opening. Legolas peered inside.  
  
Sunlight permeated the small one room dwelling through the window and small holes in the walls. There was a small table, broken, and chair, also broken, and several pieces of ovenware and earthen jars scattered in jagged bits across the floor. There was also a goodly amount of blood.  
  
Legolas knelt down to touch it. Still fresh, still wet. He looked at his stained fingertip, then brought it to his nose to sniff. Human, he determined. He saw a thin trail of blood, and stood to locate it source. He moved to the far side of the dwelling, and saw where the trail of blood originated.  
  
A small woman, of the race of man, lay upon her pallet. Legolas knelt quickly to check for signs of life. They were quite faint. He noticed that the blood came from a wound just below her heart, and that the wound was no doubt made not by a sword but by a knife. He brushed back strawberry blond hair from the victim's forehead. She was already quite cold. Pale blue, unfocused eyes filled with tears met his.  
  
"Am I dying?" she asked weakly, blood gurgling in her mouth.  
  
Legolas hesitated before speaking.  
  
"Yes. Pray, who did this to you?"  
  
"You."  
  
"I?"  
  
"Nay. Darker," she said.  
  
"Valgur," said Legolas.  
  
The woman seized at the sound of his name, and then fell limp. Her eyes remained open as her life deserted her broken body.  
  
Legolas closed her eyes with a hand, then offered an Elven song of loss to gently escort her soul to her afterlife.  
  
The treachery of Valgur grows, Legolas thought, and rose to his feet, and vowed that this woman's life would this night be avenged. With his last breath, he would see Valgur dead._

Legolas dressed in dark gray pants and shirt and soft black boots. Without benefit of a mirror he pulled back his hair and twisted it in braids suitable for battle, letting his ears show freely. It had been an exceptionally long time since he had seen himself this way.  
  
As a warrior.  
  
Centuries had passed in a blur. The last time he had taken up arms for a cause, the cannon was the state of the art. So very long ago. He found himself looking forward to this confrontation. Not because he would bring justice to an unjust situation, but because he could once again be Legolas warrior Prince of Mirkwood, defender of the Woodland Realm, assassin, protector, soldier, enforcer. No longer simply the quiet, reclusive Mr. Greenleaf, hidden among men, the last of his kind.  
  
There was a soft knock at his door. Legolas turned quickly and opened it.  
  
"Miss Huffington?"  
  
"I wanted to wish you luck. I don't know what else to say in this kind of situation."  
  
Legolas nodded and went to his closet.  
  
"Come in, I wish to show you something."  
  
Charlita entered cautiously, looking around at the parsimoniously furnished room – a simple though large bed, its frame made of polished cherry wood, dressed in white linen and down, a wooden ladder back chair that may well have been over 500 years old, a simple table and a chest of drawers. The room was lit by at least a hundred candles, and open terrace doors lead to a vine and ivy covered balcony that overlooked the garden.  
  
Legolas pulled open the double doors of his closet and pushed his few clothing items to the side. There was a false door inside, a secret door that he accessed by pressing one of the hinges.  
  
"One of the previous owners, I was told by the seller, was a bootlegger, and used this hidden closet to conceal contraband from the authorities. I use it as a war chest."  
  
Charlita peered over Legolas' shoulder. She gasped when he turned back to her with a large, sheathed sword.  
  
"Whoa," she said, as he pulled the sheath away. The sound it made was a pure and resounding ring that sent a chill down her spine.  
  
"This is Anduril."  
  
Charlita was unable to move, unable to speak. Never had she seen anything as beautiful as this sword. When she could find voice, all she could do was repeat the name.  
  
"Anduril."  
  
"This sword, originally called Narsil, was broken in combat thousands of years before my birth. It was later reforged by Elven craftsmen, and given to Aragorn, King of Gondor, my closest and dearest friend."  
  
"Why do you show this to me?" Charlita asked, breathlessly. She held a hand over her heart, fearing it would stop beating.  
  
"Take it," Legolas urged her, proffering it to her.  
  
Charlita reached out with hesitant, trembling hands and took hold of the sword. It was heavy, but not nearly as heavy as she feared it would be, by its appearance. It gleamed in the candlelight. She gasped as she was hit by a wave of images. The floor shook and walls seem to reverberate with the sounds of battle. Fires raged, metal clashed, arrows whistled through the air in swift, violent arcs. As quickly as the images began, they disappeared, leaving a ringing in her ears.  
  
"Whoa!" she said again, once she remembered to breathe. "What was that?"  
  
"Memories."  
  
"Yours?"  
  
"Some, yes."  
  
"Why did you want me to see this?"  
  
"As precious as the books and maps are to me, even more so is this. Anduril is symbolic of my entire life, of everything I am, everything I have done, everything I was ever meant to do or be. Everyone I've ever known. Of all the possessions I've brought forward from my long existence, this one thing is of greater worth to me than my own life. If I should not return tonight..."  
  
"Wait a minute..."  
  
"Please, hear me out. If I should not return, I request that you keep good care of it for me. Put it in a place of safe-keeping. Preserve it, protect it, and let it not end up in some antique auction or under some vapid collector's bed to gather dust, rust and ruin. Keep it, and when Tristan is of the age of maturity, I want you to give this to him."  
  
"Legolas..."  
  
"He will be the last of my kind. Into his hands it should rightfully fall. Will you do this for me?"  
  
Charlita could not answer. She stared at Anduril, then looked back to Legolas with eyes filled with tears.  
  
"I will do as you say."  
  
"You have my thanks."  
  
Legolas gently removed the sword from her tense grip, and placed it safely back in it sheath.  
  
As he turned to put back the sword, he heard Charlita begin to quietly sob.  
  
She covered her face, shamed, embarrassed, and quickly wiped away her tears.  
  
Legolas turned back to face her. He placed his hands gently upon her shoulders.  
  
"Why do you weep, Charlita?" he asked softly.  
  
"Because...because I've brought all this upon you. I am so sorry. So sorry for bringing all this trouble to your door."  
  
"Trouble is a thing that often comes unbidden. Do not blame yourself, or take responsibility for something when it is not yours to take."  
  
"But Valgur is my problem. This is not your fight!"  
  
"But it is, Charlita. It has always been my fight. Thousands of years before you were born, we met in battle, Valgur and I, and I failed. If there were anyone to be faulted, let it fall upon me. For if I had killed Valgur when I had the chance, you would not have suffered under his yoke."  
  
Legolas reached out with a thumb and tenderly wiped away the last of Charlita's tears. She looked down at the floor discomfited by his kind gesture.  
  
"One good thing did come of all this," Legolas whispered. "Your son. Take comfort in that." Charlita nodded and attempted a smile.  
  
"You'd better come back then," she said. "He's very fond of you."  
  
"I am equally fond of him. And as you can see..."  
  
Legolas moved back to his closet and removed a black leather long coat with a hood from a hanger. He slipped into it, then checked the inside panels. There, tucked inside the coat, were his long knives.  
  
"... I am well armed," he spoke with a confident smile. "Now, I will need keys, and your address."  
  
Charlita reached into the back pocket of her jeans and produced for Legolas her keys and a piece of paper on which she had written down her street.  
  
"Tonight, if it is the will of the Valar," Legolas said as he pulled his black leather hood over his head, a stark contrast against his glowing skin, "Valgur will be no more."  
  
He had been sitting in the dark room for more than an hour waiting for her. Charlita's recent lack of respect and blatant disobedience was beginning to wear on Valgur's nerves. Perhaps it was time to teach her yet another lesson, he considered, and thought of the last time her rebellious nature had driven him to such a necessity.  
  
She had feebly attempted to protect the old man for whom she worked and denied outright Valgur's request for certain valuable items to be secreted out of her employer's safe. When Charlita showed up empty handed, Valgur gave her a taste of Elven-forged steel – a small knife he carried concealed in his boot for occasions such as these. It was not his intention to kill her - she was much too valuable to be rid of at the time – but to frighten her, which it did. The wound, though superficial, bled profusely, and left a scar she would keep as a reminder for the rest of her life.  
  
"Think of it," Valgur had said, "as my mark upon you."  
  
Perhaps Charlita had finally outlived her usefulness.  
  
If she appeared empty-handed and defiant tonight, Valgur saw little choice but to dispatch of her and move on to fresher, greener pastures. As for the boy, his half-breed son, it might be fun for a time to abscond with him. He imagined all the great tricks and schemes he could teach the boy. Imagined the many ways in which the boy could be used to gain riches and favor. And if the boy protested, Valgur would not allow sentimentality to stand in his way. He would simply send him to meet his mother in whatever afterlife awaited the race of men.  
  
He was considering what continent he had yet to befoul with his presence when he heard a soft noise just outside the door. Something deep in his Elvish nature made him stand and prepare to fight. Something told him that whoever made that noise outside the door was not Charlita. Valgur stepped back into the deep shadows as the door slowly opened.  
  
Time slowed as Legolas entered. His senses were heightened with the thought of battle, his eyes seeing despite the dark, his ears attuned to every nuance of sound. He felt the presence of Valgur in the room like a heartbeat. He pulled the long knives from his coat, whipped them through the air, and took a defensive stance.  
  
"Of all the faces I ever expected to see in my long life," Valgur said from the shadows, not yet revealing himself, "yours was the least among them, Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood."  
  
"Show your face, Valgur of Lorien. Hiding in the shadows is for cowards and deceivers."  
  
"And if I do, what kind of reception should I expect, son of Thranduil? A duel taste of your long knives? Or boring, verbose, self-righteous prattle about all the horrible wrongs I committed?"  
  
"Do you deny you are deserving of either?"  
  
"I deny nothing, I admit nothing. By the Valar, let it go! It is ancient history!"  
  
"Do not mention the Valar," Legolas demanded, "for it is a curse and not a blessing from your foul mouth."  
  
"Oh, really, Legolas, it's been a few thousand years! Can't we find some common ground and be at peace? I leave you alone, you leave me alone? There's a certain harmony to it. What do you say?"  
  
"I say, step into the light, and we shall discuss it further."  
  
And so he did. Valgur took two steps, and the ambient light from the street filtering through the window bathed him in a soft glow. He smiled.  
  
"I have to say, Legolas, despite your ill albeit passionate attempt at vengeance, it is oddly good to see you, fellow Elf. The years have been good to you. You must admit it is quite pleasant to be in the presence of ones own kind after so long. Being surrounded by the race of men over time has proven to be quite trying. Have you noticed?"  
  
"I am not here to wax nostalgic with you, Valgur..."  
  
"Yes, I know," Valgur said patronizingly, "you've come to kill me. Well, if we are to fight, let us get to the fighting, shall we? And may the best Elf win."  
  
With that, Valgur pulled from the deep pocket of his own long coat a gun and fired.  
  
It had occurred to Legolas, en route to Charlita's apartment that Valgur would not give up easily. Nor would he choose to fight fairly. It was simply not in his nature. So Legolas knew to expect the worst.  
  
He did not, however, expect to be shot.  
  
He ducked and rolled across the floor, coming back to his feet quickly, and lunged at Valgur with two swift strokes of his twin knives. He heard them slicing through the air, but was disappointed to know that he had missed Valgur both times.  
  
He would not allow that to happen again.  
  
Valgur was quick on his feet as well.  
  
"That was thrilling!" Valgur sang.  
  
"This is no game!" shouted Legolas, and came at his prey again. He felt the knife hit deep flesh this time – once, twice - and knew his aim was true when Valgur cried out in agony.  
  
"No fair!" Valgur exclaimed, looking at the now bleeding gash on his upper right arm, and the stab wound in his right side. He tore away a piece of his long coat.  
  
"This was brand new!"  
  
He aimed the gun again and fired.  
  
Legolas leaped out of the way as the bullet tore through a lamp and drilled a hole into the wall the size of a quarter just beside the blond elf.  
  
"Guns!" Valgur cried, "a wonderful invention! Man can claim little good when it comes to his contributions to the world, but he certainly knows how to kill and destroy, I'll give him that. You know, I nearly died because of one of these things. The bullet drove into my chest, a mere hair short of my heart. I nearly drowned in my own lung fluid. Bloody painful it was."  
  
"You should have died, and rid the world of your malicious, traitorous heart."  
  
"Why do you try so hard to insult me? Still angry about that little tiff with the King of Gondor? Or are you merely belly-aching over being left for dead at Lhun? It wasn't personal. You were denying my escape, and I wouldn't have it."  
  
Legolas moved to strike again, but Valgur raised the gun, aiming directly at the point between Legolas' eyes.  
  
"Let the fight end here, dear cousin."  
  
"Do not call me that," Legolas spat.  
  
"DEAR COUSIN. We are kin. Not even time can change that. Because of this unresolved conflict, we both missed our chance to diminish into the west with our loved ones. Aren't you tired yet? Let it go, Legolas. Let bygone days be at rest."  
  
"No more talking, Valgur. If you intend to shoot, I suggest you do it, for I will NOT back down! I will not spare you, or allow you to cross that threshold alive. Your mere existence is a stain upon this world. I will not allow you to ruin another life."  
  
"Do you truly care for these people, Prince of Mirkwood? When are you going to realize, they are not worthy of you! Face it, Legolas. This is all about Aragorn. Aragorn is gone now. DEAD. Nothing left of him, not even dust, or a footnote in ancient history. You need no longer seek vengeance. What's done is long since done."  
  
"Men and Elves died that day, because of your treachery!"  
  
"Again, all in the past."  
  
"I would let you go, Valgur, bane of Lorien, if I thought for one fleeting moment you would do no harm. But as I have learned, and as you have aptly displayed, you are not one to be trusted or pardoned. Your disdain for life sickens me. You are a blight upon the race of men. A violent beast without remorse or pity. You bring shame to the race of Elves and our legacy."  
  
"Who cares about our legacy but you and I?"  
  
"Perhaps your son?"  
  
"Ah, yes, sweet little Tristan. Pray, how is he? Not that I care. You see, Tristan is really not so special. He's not my only son. I have sired hundreds of sons in my long years. Many recently. And many are still alive. And many have come to loath the race of man as I do. The boy is just one among many. And one day soon, the many will rise up with me and retake that which we should have taken before the dawn of the fourth age. This world."  
  
"I thought you merely a traitor and vainglorious usurper. Now I know the truth. You are quite mad."  
  
"Now that is insulting!"  
  
Valgur fired again.  
  
Legolas flipped, legs flying, in a swift arc, landing on his feet right before Valgur. He thrust with his blades, once, twice, stabbing Valgur in the abdomen and slicing him across the chest.  
  
Valgur, caught off guard, fell to his knees, losing his grip on the gun, which fell upon the carpeted floor. Legolas deftly kicked the weapon away, then with the same foot, kicked Valgur in the face.  
  
Valgur yelled, threw himself with all his might against Legolas, knocking the wind from him and sending him crashing to the floor.  
  
Valgur moved to the door, ready to run through it, but stopped to turn back to Legolas one last time.  
  
"Don't be an idiot, cousin. Realize the potential here! We are gods among men. Join me. You are still the best fighter I have ever faced. You and I together could change the fate of the world."  
  
Legolas lay upon the floor, willing himself to rise, but unable to, breathing hard, but not yet daunted.  
  
"I will change the world," Legolas said, "and that change will begin and end with your death."  
  
"No, for again, you failed. History repeats itself once more. Perhaps you should learn from your mistakes, dear cousin. I spare your life tonight in the hope that you will see my grand vision for you and join me. If not, the next time we meet, you shall certainly die."  
  
Valgur ran out the door.  
  
Legolas moved to get up, to pursue. A hot, searing pain abruptly stopped him, taking him back down to the floor, the room moving strangely around him. He fought not to cry out as he pulled back his long coat and looked down at his left side.  
  
Blood.  
  
Charlita was waiting, determined to wait all night until Legolas returned. She had tucked Tristan into bed at nine, reassuring him that Legolas would return and all would finally be well. After much protesting her son finally fell into a deep, quiet sleep.  
  
It was a few minutes past eleven when exhaustion had driven Charlita to the soft leather couch in the library. The moment she sat down, she knew she was bound to sleep. When she awoke with a start, she looked at her watch and saw that more than an hour had slipped by.  
  
Then she heard the door open.  
  
Charlita lunged for the door and met Legolas in the hall. She smiled.  
  
"You're back," she said.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Well?"  
  
"Valgur is injured. I know not how severely. But once again," he said without hiding his disappointment, "he slipped through my fingers."  
  
"But you hurt him, right? Maybe he'll get the message and go, leave us alone, finally."  
  
"I do not believe that will be the case," he said despondently.  
  
Legolas moved slowly into the library. Charlita followed him.  
  
"It is only a matter of time," he continued, "before Valgur regains his courage and returns to finish this fight, once and for all."  
  
Legolas turned and looked Charlita in the eyes.  
  
"Perhaps you should leave, you and Tristan. Go where he cannot find you. In case I fail you again."  
  
She could feel the depth of the Elf's despair, radiating from him like a fever. She reached out and touched his arm.  
  
"You won't fail," she said, as reassuringly as she could manage. "I won't run. I won't hide. There is no need to."  
  
Legolas stared into the cold fireplace, despair overtaking his spirit.  
  
"I let you down. I led you to believe I could help you, and I failed."  
  
"At least you tried."  
  
Legolas quietly gasped, and bent slightly at the waist.  
  
"Legolas? What is it?"  
  
"I seem to have a problem."  
  
"What?"  
  
Legolas pulled back his long coat.  
  
"I am injured."  
  
His gray shirt was soaked with slick blood. There was a dime size hole, with the greatest concentration of blood surrounding it, oozing from it.  
  
"Oh my God!" Charlita cried. "We have to get you to a hospital, now!"  
  
"No!" Legolas insisted. "Hospital is out of the question. They cannot treat me without my true nature being revealed, and that would be a catastrophe. I will be fine."  
  
"You have a bullet wound! You are a long way from fine."  
  
"You don't understand. Elves heal quite fast."  
  
"Even when they're nine thousand years old?"  
  
"Well, somewhat faster than what you might consider normal," he said before losing his footing again.  
  
She caught him before he collapsed and fell toward the fireplace. He pulled away from her, and stood tall again.  
  
"Let me help you!" Charlita pleaded.  
  
"I do not need your help. I will survive this."  
  
"But you're bleeding all over your floor."  
  
"I shall take measures to staunch the bleeding, and in time...in time...wha..."  
  
Legolas nearly fell again. Again Charlita kept him on his feet. His body tensed with annoyance from the woman's attempt to help.  
  
"Don't let pride be your undoing," Charlita whispered.  
  
Legolas considered her words, and they seemed true.  
  
"Thank you, he whispered, and allowed his weight to fall upon Charlita. She led him to the couch and helped him sit. She could see he was in some pain.  
  
"I have a feeling," Charlita said, "this is going to be a long, difficult night."  
  
"Aye," was all Legolas could say.  
  
End chapter 8 Hope you liked it. Please feel free to review. Eat your peas. 


	9. Chapter 9

23

Mirkwood Manor

Chapter 9

Again I thank all of you for your kind comments, and apologize for the lengthy wait until this update. I'll try to address chapter 10 a bit faster. Please enjoy and by all means encourage others to read it. I know that Mirkwood Manor slips away from Master Tolkien's canon, but I hope you will stay with this story until the end. On with chapter nine.

"_YIELD!" Legolas cried as he struck blade against his kin and foe, Valgur._

"_NEVER!" shouted Valgur, though Legolas could see that his cousin was fading, weakening, in both physical endurance and tolerance. Even still, he fought well – not surprising, as he had been trained in the art of war from the very blond Elf that now opposed him._

_Legolas had found Valgur again, hunted him down, tracked him to this place at the edge of the world where Valgur had attempted to hide and wait until the very last of the ships came by these shores. His plan was to board it and escape to the Grey Havens as if nothing had ever happened. As if he had never done any wrong against man or Elf. _

_Legolas had thwarted his plans._

_They had been fighting without stop for breath or rest or sustenance now for what may have been hours. And though both were exhausted beyond all reason and bleeding profusely from wounds superficial and possibly life-threateningly deep, neither would yield, both fighting by sheer force of will or some dark madness._

_Would someone someday write songs of this bleak time, Legolas found himself wondering? And what lyric would they choose to tell the tale of these two immortals, locked in relentless struggle? Would any Elf but the two of them remain to remember or care?_

_His musing cost him dearly, as Valgur's sword found Legolas' side. The agony of the blade puncturing his flesh nearly paled by comparison to the sound of it. Nearly._

_Legolas faltered on his feet, yet did not fall. Valgur pushed harder, sending the blade deeper into Legolas' body. He shuddered, but still he did not falter, nor did he cry out or consider asking for mercy. He merely brought up his own sword and introduced his blade to Valgur's flesh and innards. Both fell, releasing the other._

_Legolas found his back against a craggy, sun-baked boulder, and watched as Valgur began to crawl upon his blood-drenched belly, heading toward the shore. Consciousness, like Valgur, took opportunity to flee from Legolas._

_When consciousness returned a short time later, he allowed himself the luxury of crying out, as mere movement of a finger was cause for great agony. Pain and suffering were becoming constant and demanding companions to Legolas. This time, however, he believed each breath would be his last, and was surprised when it was not._

_Legolas looked down at his broken body. There was Valgur's blade still buried to the hilt in his side. He could feel the tip of the blade scraping against the boulder where it protruded from his back. There was so much blood covering him, soaking the ground around him, that he could smell the scent of it, feel the warmth of it quickly turning cold._

_Several feet away, where water met sand, lay Valgur. In far worse condition, Legolas noted. Legolas knew better than to count him dead however, until the foul one's body had begun to stiffen from rigor and stink of decay. Only then would this dark vigil be over, unless death came first for the Prince of Mirkwood._

_And then Legolas saw them, in the distance, shimmering in the last of the sun's light before dusk. So tiny were they, yet their markings still obvious and painfully familiar._

_The last ships._

_Was it too late? Could he make his way to the shore? Would they see him? Would they turn back for him? _

_Legolas tried to lift himself, but was far too weak to raise even an arm. His voice was too damaged and made feeble by fight and exhaustion to call out to his kin to turn about and come back for him. Even if they could see him and come back, Legolas believed he would not live through the journey. _

_The bitterness of this was far too much to bear. _

_Sadness deeper than any he had ever felt overwhelmed him. Despair claimed his heart as he prepared to surrender himself to death. He called out weakly to the Valar, hoping they would grant him a kindness and lead his spirit gently to what lay beyond._

_There was an odd and sudden stirring in the wind. Death was coming to claim him, he was certain. He felt the world quickly growing darker and colder around him. _

_His last thought was of Aragorn, dear friend Aragorn. Legolas wished he were here, so that he could bid his friend – no, his brother – nayaer, farewell. As if his heart had conjured this very desire, a thin veil appeared before Legolas. A shimmering before his eyes that at first had no real substance, but in a blink of an eye revealed itself as Aragorn. He was as he had been at the time of the Fellowship – young and strong, long dark hair and a thin beard without sign of age; the Ranger Strider, with a heart of both flesh and steel. Brave and uncompromising, a warrior on the outside and a King in the making within. Legolas knew this was merely a product of his fevered dreams, a hallucination heralding his death, but he smiled nonetheless and enjoyed his delusion._

"_Aragorn," he whispered weakly._

"_Legolas," the vision of Aragon said back._

_Legolas coughed, tasting his own blood as it filled his mouth._

"_Now is not the time to sleep, mellon nin," Aragorn's image said._

"_Pray, when may I? For my body is weak, and my heart is broken."_

"_Not for a very long time. You must live, Legolas, and not only for yourself. Awake and rise. Your wounds are severe, but time and care will bring strength and healing."_

"_No," Legolas protested gently, "I have not the strength, and time has already abandoned me."_

"_There are many who will need you."_

"_Who will need me? I am the last of my kind. All have gone on to the undying lands. I am alone."_

"_Those who will need you are yet to be. They will be your kin and kind. They will need your guidance. They will need you to teach them everything you know."_

"_I do not understand."_

_Aragorn smiled. "You will, someday, many years from now. You will remember. Those who are yet to be, await you."_

_Aragorn was no longer there. Neither was there light. Legolas slipped into a deep, dreamless unconsciousness._

_When he awoke, he found himself again surrounded by men in a house of healing. His wounds were bound, his body washed and hair brushed and braided by the wife of a chief healer. Legolas had many questions, but the chief healer refused to entertain any query until Legolas had taken sufficient nourishment – water and a bit of Lembas – to strengthen him. _

_After Legolas had eaten, King Aragorn himself had come to his bedside. _

"_Again, I find you at death's door. Promise me, no more such meetings in the house of healing, my friend. My heart cannot take the strain." _

"_I beg your forgiveness," Legolas managed to say._

"_I forgive you. And I order you to be well."_

_He held Legolas' hand close to his chest._

"_Manen anann?"_

"_How long?" Aragorn repeated in the tongue of men. "Long. You were unconscious for several days. We feared you would never return from such a deep sleep. Yet you did, thank the Valar. You were in and out of consciousness, sick with a dark fever, for longer. Your wounds are healing and will soon be but a shadow of a memory. I am told however, that it is imperative that you rest well and eat to encourage a full recovery."_

"_Did I dream of the ships, or were my eyes deceived? Did I truly see them pass by? Am I, as I fear, left behind?"_

_Aragorn could not answer right away, but Legolas knew his fate by the deep despair etched on his friend's aging face._

"_It was not a dream, mellon nin. It is as you feared. The last ships have sailed on. But fear no more, for I have a fleet of merchant vessels and war ships standing by, at your disposal. The men know not the way to the Grey Havens but will stop at nothing to find it and reunite you with your kin, if it is your wish."_

_Legolas felt his body strengthening at the thought._

_And then another thought occurred to him. _

"_What of Valgur? He lay dying upon the shores of Lhun, as was I until you found me. Tell me Valgur was there, and is now dead and buried or burned?"_

_Again, the answer was upon Aragorn's face._

"_There was much blood," said Aragorn, "and there was evidence of another near where you lay. But we found no one."_

"_Then I can only assume that he has once again escape me. Again I have failed, and Valgur lives."_

"_No one could live long baring such wounds, not man nor elf!"_

"_I did," Legolas said in a savage whisper._

"_Perhaps," Aragorn continued, determined to encourage and relieve his friend of his anguish, "perhaps he was carried off by some beast. Or the rising tide washed him out to the depths of the sea."_

"_I would have suffered a similar fate, which would be preferable to living with the shame of my failure."_

"_No, Legolas –"_

"_Leave me," he pleaded, turning his face away from Aragorn, hiding his shame._

"_Legolas!"_

_Legolas said nothing. Aragorn gently released Legolas's hand and stepped back._

"_Do not despair, my friend, my brother," the King spoke, reaching out from his heart, "for there are many forces at work here, and you have yet to understand your part in all this. Perhaps Valgur was meant to escape. Who knows what the future holds, or what task or calling awaits you? Rest now. Eat and strengthen. There are many who need you."_

_Legolas' heart quickened at Aragorn's words. Words he had heard before in his vision of Aragorn many days ago on the shores of Lhun. He turned back to face the King again._

"_Those who are yet to be?" he asked._

"_I know not of those yet to be, only that I need my friend beside me as my days grow fewer. It is autumn for the King of Gondor, and winter is quickly approaching. And there are those who still seek to usurp the throne."_

"_If it is as you say, then I shall put the burden of my shame behind me and offer you my bow and my life. If the Valar so wills it, I will face Valgur again someday. Until that day, I am your friend, and I shall forever remain by your side and at your service."_

_Aragorn smiled._

"_I know, mellon nin. I know. Quel esta – Rest well."_

"Manen anann?"

These were his first words in several hours. Charlita wished she could understand him. He'd been speaking in this strange tongue since he'd succumbed to this state of semi-consciousness. She moved closer to hear him, a cool cloth in hand, to wipe the sweat from his brow. He opened his eyes and clouded blue eagerly sought answers in hers of sable brown.

"Manen anann?" he repeated, a bit more insistently.

"Ssshhh," she whispered comfortingly, and placed the cloth along the side of his face, and felt fever heat radiating from his skin. "You're going to be fine," she tried to assure him, though she did not know for certain herself.

"Manen anann?" he asked yet again, then closing his eyes to think, to concentrate, he found the English words for which he had been grasping. "How long?"

"Um...You passed out, as soon as I got you to the couch. You've been in and out of consciousness all night long."

Legolas nodded. "Water?"

Charlita quickly reached to the floor where she had placed a glass of fresh water, waiting for an opportunity to present it to him. She held it to his mouth, and he drank from it, but only a bit.

"Hannonle," he said, pulling away from the glass.

"English, please," she gently demanded as she set the glass aside. "I have no idea what you just said."

Legolas let a smile tug at his dry lips and said, "It means thank you."

Legolas pushed back the blanket that covered him and tried to sit up. Pain quickly discouraged him, and he lay back to breathe through the threat of unconsciousness returning. Uncharacteristic cold sent a disturbing shiver through him. Charlita reached over and pulled the blanket back up to his neck.

"Tampa tanya!" he ordered.

"You tampa tanya!" she volleyed back, "whatever that means! You may be a fast healer, but you're not out of the woods yet. That bullet tore right through your side and exited through your back!"

She reached down to the floor and held up as visual proof two previously white towels that were now soaked and stained with Legolas' blood.

"There's no telling what kind of damage was done to your internal organs," she continued, "or whatever you've got in there. I know you're not human but you're still in bad shape. And if you die, I don't know what to do with you. So do yourself and me a huge favor and accept my help, accept that you're not a hundred percent and tampa tanya, please."

Legolas merely watched her, and remembered long ago hearing quite similar words from a most insistent friend. After a fierce battle, or after one of many adventures where things had gone awry, he remembered Aragorn's pleading and demanding that the elf realize the potentially debilitating nature of his blood being spilt and accept the man's help. Legolas would insist they press on, return home or fight on. And Aragorn would protest vociferously, to the point that Legolas had no choice but to acquiesce to Aragorn's wisdom as a healer and compassion as a friend.

The elf's wounded pride often took longer to heal than his broken body.

"I will comply," Legolas said. "Do with me as you see fit."

Charlita huffed and tossed the spoilt towels back to the floor.

"Good," she said, at a loss for what else to say, and what to do, now that she had his full cooperation.

Legolas felt along his side and found thick, makeshift bandages covering his wound.

"I couldn't find a first aid kit, so I had to do what I could. Those are sheets. Rather, were sheets."

"This is a far better dressing that I would have applied," he said, hoping to encourage her and thus improve her mood.

"Yeah, well, it wasn't easy cleaning your wound or getting that on you."

Legolas only stared at her, waiting for further explanation.

"You clipped me."

"I 'clipped' you?

"Yeah," Charlita said, and pointed to her chin, "here. I think it was a right hook."

Legolas looked closely and saw that there was a small bruise forming along her chin. He closed his eyes as his heart sank.

"I have hurt you. I am deeply sorry."

"It's okay. It's not like you did it deliberately. You were thrashing about. You were in pain."

"Does it hurt?" he asked, reaching to touch the darkening wound gently.

"Not so much anymore," she confessed. "I can take it."

"That does not mean you should."

"Forget it. Are you hungry?"

"No, but I am aware that I should eat."

"What do you eat?"

"There are vegetables in the garden."

"You want them raw, or like a broth?"

"Broth sounds wonderful."

"Let me go pick something, and I'll be back."

Charlita grabbed up the spoilt towels and headed for the door.

"Charlita?"

She stopped quickly.

"Thank you."

"No. Don't thank me. If it weren't for me, if you'd never met me, none of this would have happened. I should be thanking you. You fought for me. _You fought for me. _Do you have any idea what that means to me? People don't open doors for each other anymore, or let anybody through in traffic, much less stand up for someone when they're too weak to fight for themselves."

"You are not weak," said Legolas. "You are the strongest woman I have ever met."

"Maybe you should get out more."

"Please hear the truth. Your strength may not be in arms, but it is in your character, in your heart. Look at your son. He is as he is because of you. And as for me....You have done more for me than you can possibly imagine. You've given me a cause. And a chance to right a great wrong. For this I will be eternally grateful."

Charlita felt tears burning, threatening to spill from her eyes.

"Rest," was all she could say as she turned to leave the room.

Charlita wandered through the garden, spellbound by the lushness of the vines and foliage surrounding her. It was late in the year yet this place was as verdant as early summer. She took in a deep breath and as the freshness filled her lungs she felt a calm settle upon her unlike any other. No wonder Legolas spent so much time out here, among the trees and green.

As she reached down to pull a vaguely familiar leafy vegetable from its place in the earth, another feeling crept into her psyche, sending a chill through her. Charlita quickly stood. Someone was here, or nearby. Someone was watching her. She was rarely given to such prescient thoughts but when she was she knew to take heed. She looked around, given close scrutiny to every branch and leaf and possible hiding place, but saw nothing. She chalked it up to exhaustion from sitting up all night with Legolas, and the stress and strain of the past few days. Even so, she quickly pulled vegetables from dirt and vines and returned immediately to the security of the manor, making a mental note to tell Legolas what she had experienced.

"Can I come in?"

"Tristan!" Legolas, ignoring the pain, reached out his hand. "Mae govannen. Please come in. Such good company I cannot afford to turn away."

Tristan entered sheepishly, looking over his shoulder.

"Mom said I was to leave you alone, but I had to see if you were okay. You're okay, right?"

"Thanks to you and your mother, yes. I will be quite fine in short order."

"Where is she?"

"In the kitchen, preparing a meal. Are you hungry?"

Tristan nodded.

"Then we shall eat together. Tolo, mado go nin. Come and dine with me."

Tristan sat legs akimbo on the floor near the couch.

"Mom said he shot you."

Legolas wished he could spare the half-elven boy the truth, but knew deep down a lie would do him little good.

"It is true."

"Did it hurt?"

"Yes."

"Can I see it?"

"I am afraid it is rather well hidden under all the bandages. Perhaps later, if you still have a care to."

"How do you say I'm sorry in Elvish?"

"Im naer," said Legolas.

"Im naer, Legolas."

"Why?"

"He's my father."

"What is the basis of your shame? Did you choose Valgur to be your father, knowing what kind of character he possessed? No. You are an innocent here, and have no reason to feel shame."

"I wish," Tristan began, but embarrassment quickly overcame him.

"What is it that you wish?"

"I wish you were my father. I wish you could teach me everything you know."

The words reverberated through him like a chill wind, shaking him to the core. Words from a fever dream, long ago and yet not so long ago were unearth from his psyche, repeated in his mind, chiseled onto his heart, and emblazoned on his Elven soul.

"_Those who will need you are yet to be. They will be your kin and kind. They will need your guidance. They will need you to teach them everything you know."_

Aragorn, in the vision, spoke these very words to him on that long ago battlefield. He now understood the telling the vision had given him. It was a duty most imperative, an obligation, a cause that no one else could take on but Legolas.

"Are you all right?" Tristan asked, scooting closer to Legolas.

Legolas could not yet speak. He was lost in memory. And realization.

He remembered his confrontation with Valgur, and his smug proclamation:

"_I have sired hundreds of sons in my long years."_

And then he remembered again with an odd clarity the words spoken by Aragorn's vision:

"_They will need you to teach them everything you know."_

It occurred to him that all these things had happened for a reason, that he was destined to fulfill a purpose far greater than his desire for justice. His failure to stop Valgur had nothing to do with falling short or lacking ability, but by divine order. Had Iluvatar known all along – predestined – that this moment would take place? That through this child Tristan, his true purpose would be revealed? To find those who were not yet born in the time of his vision, but now existed, and were scattered around the world. To teach them everything he knew – what it means to be an Elf in the time of Men. To ease their troubled hearts, to assuage their confusion and help them find the answers to the questions that no doubt plagued them – "What am I?" and "Why am I different?"

The children of Valgur, Tristan's brothers and sister, Legolas' own cousins, needed him to guide them through life.

"I will teach you everything I know," Legolas said, turning to Tristan, "and more." He reached out and took Tristan's small, dark hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"You will?"

"Gweston," he said, "I swear."

Evening fell gently upon the manor, bringing with it a light shower and cool winds. With Tristan's help, Charlita prepared for the evening by closing windows and building a fire in the library to keep them warm and cozy. She warmed more vegetable broth and saw to it that her son ate his fill. The rest she divided between herself and Legolas.

They sat quietly, the crackling find within and the soft blowing wind without the only sounds. Tristan lay upon the floor reading his favorite X-Men comic for the umpteenth time, and Charlita sat in a chair near the fire, her eyes growing heavy with fatigue.

"Charlita?"

She quickly snapped back to wakefulness and turned to Legolas.

"Yes? What?"

"You are exhausted. Please, take my room. You'll find the bed most comfortable. Caedo, losto. Lie down and sleep."

"I'm okay," she assured him.

It was then that she noticed his still full soup bowl.

"You have to eat."

"I have eaten enough."

"Eat more."

"I do not wish to eat more."

"Stubborn elf," she said with a playful grin. Since she could not get Legolas to follow her quite sensible orders, she decided to turn her attentions to her son.

"Tristan, it's getting late. Go get ready for bed."

"I'm not sleepy yet. Can't I stay up a little bit longer?"

"No. You need your rest, and so does Legolas. He doesn't need you keeping him up all night long."

"I won't!"

"Tristan..."

Realizing the fight was already lost, Tristan rose and headed for the door, but stopped short of it.

"Can I come back and say good night?"

"Yes," Charlita acquiesced. "Now get going."

Tristan ran out of the room, and bounded up the steps with light and agile feet.

Charlita turned to Legolas now.

"And you..."

"I've done nothing to raise your ire, gentle woman."

Charlita smile. "Actually, I was going to make myself a cup of tea. Would you join me?"

"I would be honored."

"It's just tea."

When Charlita returned with a tray and two steaming cups of tea, she was surprised to find that Tristan had not yet rejoined them.

"How long does it take to wash up and brush your teeth?" she asked as she set the tray down.

"Tristan?" she called out to him.

There was no answer.

"Tristan!"

Again, no answer.

Charlita turned to Legolas.

"Something's wrong," she said in a frightened whisper. And then memory returned of her time in the garden. The ill feeling that swept over her was with her once again.

When Legolas saw the sudden look of distress and fear etched on Charlita's face, he forgot whatever pain or discomfort he was feeling and rose to a sitting position.

"Charlita? What is it? Tell me."

"When I was in the garden... I felt something. I think it was him. I didn't see anything. It was just a feeling."

Legolas rose and called out himself this time. His voice reverberated through the house.

"Tristan! Tristan, answer!"

Charlita made her way for the door, but a strong hand grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her back.

"What if it's Valgur? What if he has Tristan?"

"Then he shall face me one last time," Legolas said. "Stay here."

His hair unbraided and loose, his feet and back bare, wearing naught but pants, Legolas made his way quietly up the stairs, holding his wounded side. When he arrived at the top, he found a sight that made his elven heart ache beat harder with fear, anger and hatred.

Valgur stood with Tristan, holding the boy about the shoulders, a long knife to his throat.

"Legolas, dear cousin, I believe you and I have some unfinished business."

End chapter 9

Conclusion coming.

Share chocolate.


	10. Chapter 10

Mirkwood Manor

Chapter 10

by Lacadiva

_Once again I thank all of you for your kind comments, and apologize for the lengthy wait for this update. I know that Mirkwood Manor slips away from Master Tolkien's canon, but I hope you will stay with this story as we quickly approach the end. There will be two more chappies after this one. Enjoy!_

From the previous chapter:

_His hair unbraided and loose, his feet and back bare, wearing naught but pants, Legolas made his way quietly up the stairs, holding his wounded side. When he arrived at the top, he found a sight that made his Elven heart ache and beat harder with fear, anger and hatred._

_Valgur stood with Tristan, holding the boy about the shoulders, a long knife to his throat._

"_Legolas, dear cousin, I believe you and I have some unfinished business."_

Charlita was fast behind Legolas. Her legs felt leaden and rubbery, as if they would at any moment cease to support her weight or speed. She could hear her heart beating loudly and irregularly in her own ears, and her breath came in short gasps. When finally she reached the top of the stairs and found her son tight in Valgur's grip, she let rip from her throat a cry of such great anguish that she thought she would lose consciousness. She reached out frantically but froze when she saw Valgur move the blade closer to Tristan's throat.

"Please!" she screamed, "Valgur, please! Don't hurt him! Don't hurt our son!"

"Charlita, go back down stairs!" demanded Legolas, stepping before Charlita to block her view of the danger, his own eyes never leaving Valgur's.

"NO! I won't leave my son!"

"Let me deal with Valgur. Tristan will be safe. I give you my word."

"How can you," asked Valgur, "when I am the one holding the blade to the boy's throat? Are you that sure of yourself? Are you that lithe, that quick, even in your injured state, dear cousin?"

"Cousin?" Charlita asked. "What does he mean?"

When Legolas did not answer, she took hold of his arm and spun him around to face her. Her eyes, red rimmed and pained, accusing, burned into his of bright silvery blue heightened by the Elvish equivalent of adrenaline.

"Why does he call you cousin?" she said through clenched teeth.

Valgur laughed. "He didn't tell you? Shame on you, keeping secrets. Tell her, Legolas."

"It is true," Legolas spat shamefully, "we share a bloodline, Valgur and I. We are kin…" Legolas looked spitefully over his shoulder at Valgur, "…but far less than kind."

"My cousin bears a grudge," Valgur teased, "that is several millennia old. That can't have made for a happy life. Legolas the pitiable. Legolas the melancholy. And now, Legolas the vanquished."

"DO NOT MOCK ME," warned Legolas.

"What are you going to do? Kill me?" Valgur smiled and pulled Tristan closer. "Try."

Legolas wanted nothing more than to leap upon Valgur and beat him mercilessly, yet the boy's life was still in severe jeopardy. He knew he must control his anger, as well as the situation.

Charlita's eyes were welling with tears. "Why didn't you tell me?" she begged of Legolas.

"Yes, Legolas," teased Valgur, "why didn't you tell her?"

"Now is NOT the time," Legolas said less gently than he intended to Charlita, then turned to fully face his kin and enemy again.

Tristan, who had kept his calm up to this point, let tears slip down his face.

"Mom…"

"I'm here, baby…" To Valgur, she pleaded again, "Please…he's just a boy…he's your son. Your flesh and blood. Don't you feel anything for him?"

"Let the boy go," Legolas echoed, hoping to find some place in Valgur that would feel a kind of pity for the boy. Then to challenge him, Legolas taunted, "It is me you really want."

"You flatter yourself. I actually do not want you at all. This house, however, I would not mind. I could be very happy here, for a time. Though I will say it is rather drab. After I kill you, and if I should ever return to the States, I think I shall claim this place. And then, I think I shall redecorate."

Legolas took a step closer, his fists clenching and unclenching. The Assassin in him begged to be released.

"To where do you plan to abscond this time? I imagine you're running out of places to hide."

"That may be true," Valgur confessed with a thin, weary smile. "But staying here may not be the wisest choice, considering."

It was then that Legolas noticed the panic in Valgur's eyes. Unshed tears rimmed his eyes. Until this moment, he had seen only Valgur's arrogance, his superciliousness, his bravado. But never had he seen panic, never fear. Never despair.

"Considering what?" Legolas asked, hoping Valgur's sudden onset of emotion would make him careless and loose-lipped.

"It seems the authorities are on to me again. They are idiots for the most part, but once in a while they have brief, fleeting moments of lucidity and illumination. Sadly, this is one of those moments. The Police have, through fortune or folly, stumbled onto my trail. They raided my hotel room. Confiscated…no, stole my guns. They are determined that I should finish serving out a life sentence. Life locked away, when you are an immortal, is an impossible thing to consider. And I am beginning to feel my age…I'm tired. I will not last a century in captivity. So, I must now depend on the love and protection of my…family…to help me hold fast to my freedom. Assist in getting me out of the country and as far away as possible."

"And where will you go, Valgur?"

"Oh, I haven't decided. England, maybe. Surely there is some statute of limitations for certain crimes. Perhaps the African continent. Astoundingly beautiful as I remember, when I wasn't running from the local tribal authorities. Or I was thinking…Australia. I haven't been back since that nasty little incident upon the Botany Bay. I'm sure all is long forgotten if not completely forgiven by now, wouldn't you think, cousin?"

Legolas cringed at hearing that most contemptuous word again. He hated the foul reminder of their shared lineage. But he would not let Valgur know his heart. He would feign helping until he could safely deliver Tristan from his grasp and into his mother's arms. And then he would make Valgur pay for all the suffering and misery he had caused so many throughout the ages.

"Australia," Legolas repeated. _Is that where they are? The sons he bragged about? _

"Why Australia?" Legolas ventured, hoping for some confirmation of his suspicion.

"Because," Valgur said, "one could easily be lost and never found, if that is what one wished. I like that."

"I can help you get there," said Legolas, "if you will just surrender Tristan to me."

"Oh no, no, no. I'm taking Tristan with me."

"NO!" Charlita cried. "Take me! Take me instead. I can be useful to you."

"On the contrary, dear wife, you haven't been particularly useful to me in a long, long time. Tristan, however, provides insurance. Insurance that you will not alert the authorities. Insurance that you will not come in search of me. Besides, a boy should be with his Father. Don't you agree, Legolas? Oh, I'm sorry, your father died quite long ago, didn't he? Good King Thranduil. Never quite made it to the ships, did he? I'm afraid that's a story I'll have to tell you another time."

"What do you know of my father's death?"

"What do you know?" Valgur said, drawing the words out slowly, letting the dark insinuation take purchase in Legolas' heart.

"There are those who say his death was not due to natural cause. That he was assassinated."

"Never proven. But quite true. Do you know by whom?"

"I know not."

"You do now."

Fire burned in Legolas' eyes. Fury burned deep within his soul.

"It was not by my hand directly," Valgur admitted, "though I often wished it were. It was not I who hired the assassins. I merely…consulted. Suggested. The plan was mine. As it also was with Aragorn. To kill a king is a serious matter. To kill two kings…is to rule with an iron fist. You may have thwarted the assassination of King Aragorn of Gondor, but I live with the satisfaction that your father, the mighty king of Mirkwood, was unseated – indirectly - by me. No hard feelings, though, please cousin. You and Daddy were never that close, as I remember."

"Enough!" Legolas cried out. He fought to keep control of his temper. Was this true? Or an attempt to thwart Legolas by preying upon his emotions with fabrications and lies? His flesh burned with pain from his wound, and his eyes were aflame with rage. He desired nothing else but revenge - to spill Valgur's blood, to beat him until his body was broken beyond possibility of repair and he breathed no more.

Valgur pulled Tristan closer, and placed the blade closer to the whimpering child's flesh.

Legolas took a nervous step back, fighting to calm himself, praying to the Valar that his own anger would not give Valgur pause to act upon his threat.

"My father has been dead six thousand years, and Aragorn longer still. My need for justice, for vengeance, has never grown cold. Yet, I make this oath to you, 'cousin,' because I cannot bear to see another die at your hand. Leave the boy, let him come to me, and I will help you. Let him and his mother go, and I will give you all that you require, and see to your safe conduct out of this country. You need money and access. I can arrange all that for you."

"Money, yes," Valgur said. His eyes took on a renewed excitement at the thought of money. Legolas swore he saw his cousin lick his lips at the very mention.

"How much are we talking about here?" Valgur asked.

"Fifty thousand. Cash."

"American?"

"Yes."

"It's a start. Where is it?"

"Here. And there's more, in a separate location. If you have need."

"Go on."

"I can provide falsified travel documents, transportation. You will have asylum in this house until you are ready to leave. All I ask is that you spare them. Let them go, let them leave this house, never bother them again, and for as long as I draw breath, I will do your bidding."

"Do my bidding?" Valgur laughed. "You're a terrible liar, Legolas. As soon as I release the boy you're going to try to kill me again. Not that I blame you. It's exactly what I would do, given the opportunity."

"I give you my word, and that is not a thing I do lightly. You know this."

"You would help me, knowing all that you know?"

"I would do whatever you say."

"You give up far too quickly and too easily, cousin," said Valgur. "I expected so much more from you. Combat, yes. Acquiescence, cooperation, not in several millennia. Do you not wish to continue our perpetual struggle? Has our feud lost its poetry? It's fire? Maybe the Valar will find favor with you this time, after…how long has it been? Poor Legolas, eternally unlucky in love, war, friendship…."

"Listen to me, Valgur, and listen well. All that I have, I give to you. I only ask that you keep your word and spare them. Let them go, and you may do with me as you will."

"You realize these two you have grown so fond of happen to be my wife and son."

"Ex-wife," Charlita reminded them.

There was a new evil twinkle in Valgur's dark eyes.

"Charlita, darling …should I be jealous? Have you fallen for my fair-haired relative? Tell me, cousin, do you fancy her? She is rather pretty. For a human. Those big, dark, soulful eyes. Skin like warm caramel. And she's so very trusting. I always found that the most useful and attractive trait in women. Do you find her attractive, cousin?"

"She is in my employ, and thus, under my protection. Her safety and welfare are my only concerns."

"Ah, the Prince of Mirkwood, chivalrous to the last. Leave it to Legolas to desire gallant responsibility to worldly pleasures of the flesh. It doesn't make you noble, cousin, only a singular fool. And a lonely one, at that."

"Enough," Legolas demanded. "Do we have a deal? My aid for Tristan's release?"

"You'll do anything I say?"

Legolas did not answer. He was apprehensive to say yes, equally apprehensive to deny.

"What if I should say, fall upon your knees before me. Would you do that to save Tristan?"

Elven pride swelled in Legolas' chest as he held his breath. Would Valgur heap such a tremendous and heavy insult upon him?

"You can't make him do that!" Charlita shouted. Even she had a faint understanding of the high price Valgur was setting.

"Shut up!" he spat at Charlita, and returned his dark attention back to Legolas.

"Would you?" Valgur asked again. The knife tip touched close to Tristan's flesh. Charlita gasped and trembled helplessly.

"Yes." Legolas said finally.

"Hmm…And would you give your very immortal life for these inferiors?"

"Yes," he said, firmer this time.

"You'd die for them?" Valgur asked incredulously. "Do you realize what you are saying?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Again, incredulously.

Legolas could find no words to adequately express what he felt in his heart. Words like honor, self-sacrifice, and righteousness were wasted on such creatures as Valgur.

"Your silence disturbs me cousin. This does not bode well for the re-forging of our relationship."

"Send Tristan to me now, and you have my word, I will do as you say, go where you wish."

"How the worm turns. The Prince of Mirkwood, heir to the throne, hero to the peoples of Middle Earth, bearing an oath as my servant? The boy means that much to you?"

"He has come to, yes."

"Then bow down on your knees. Swear before the boy. Before Charlita. Before Iluvatar!" Then darker, "BEFORE ME."

"Legolas…" Charlita whispered, closing her eyes as Legolas began to bend his knees, as he fought hard against his pride and hatred. She closed her eyes, not wanting to watch, but not daring to stop Legolas' act of sacrifice and obeisance.

Legolas knelt before Valgur.

"Swear to defend me, swear to protect my very life."

"I swear," was all that Legolas said. It was all that he could say.

Valgur laughed, a deep, throaty, satisfied laugh.

"In all my long life, I never thought I'd hear such a thing. Such a sweetness to my ears. I will therefore make this one concession. But if you cross me, cousin, the deal is revoked and I shall take my revenge on you and eviscerate these inferiors before your eyes. Rise, Legolas, _servant of Valgur_. You may have the boy."

Valgur gave Tristan a harsh shove forward. Legolas rose and quickly caught Tristan before he could hit the floor, and instantly passed the trembling boy into Charlita's waiting arms. She hugged Tristan so very hard Legolas imagined the boy would cry out. But he did not. He happily clung to his mother.

"Are you all right? Did he hurt you?" Charlita asked, checking the boy from head to toe, searching for abrasions or cuts or bruises but finding none, to her great relief.

"Mom, I'm fine. I'm fine," he pleaded, and threw his arms around her again.

"I hate to break up this happy little reunion," Valgur interrupted.

"Ah yes, the money," Legolas spat. "You shall have it. All that I have. It is in my closet, in a safe. Shall I tell you where it is, or shall I fetch it for you?"

"Shall you fetch it for me…_sire_."

"Shall I fetch it for you…sire," Legolas said with severe distaste, as if the very words were poison upon his lips.

"No, not you. Let Charlita get it. As she is in your employ, and so very trusted by you, I imagine she knows where you keep your valuables and currency. That was her job when we were married, you remember. You stay where I can see you. You may yet attempt some foolish act of heroic rebellion."

"Charlita," Legolas spoke gently, hating to separate her from her son.

A moment, and Charlita turned to him. Her face was wet with tears, some of fear, some of joy.

"Charlita, go to my closet. The one I showed you earlier. Do you remember?"

Her breath caught in her throat. Of course she remembered.

The War Room.

Legolas' arsenal of weapons – bows, arrows, knives.

The sword, Anduril.

She nodded, holding her breath, praying she would not give away the smallest hint of the plan that was being improvised right under Valgur's nose.

"You'll find a small safe hidden in the wall," Legolas continued. The combination is 12-17-3. You'll find fifty thousand U.S. cash dollars there. Take the money, all you can carry, and bring it to the library and wait for us there. Can you do this for me?"

She nodded and gestured to her son to follow her. Before the boy could take a step -

"Tristan stays here," said Valgur, "just in case you feel the need to betray me as well."

"No harm will come to him, on my life," Legolas promised Charlita in a whisper. "Go now. Please."

Charlita moved quickly down the hall, disappearing into the darkness.

Charlita nearly flew into Legolas' bedroom and felt along the dark walls, blindly and desperately searching for a light switch. She quickly remembered that when she had been in the room before, it had been bathed in candlelight. She reached out in search of the wooden chest of drawers, atop which sat the stumps of several fat white candles. She found wooden matches and struck one, bringing a brief explosion of brightness to the room. Her hands were shaking so severely she could hardly set flame to the wicks. Once the room was lit by soft amber light she raced to the closet and opened it. She pushed back the sparse clothing items hanging and found the false wall.

Where was the mechanism that opened the wall!

She felt for it and found it, quickly engaging it. The wall slid away with a grating sound of wood against metal. The room was dark, so she raced out quickly to take one of the candles and bring it in to shed a bit of light on things.

Anduril shone in its brilliant, handcrafted sheath before her, beckoning her to deliver it to Legolas' hands. At first she was mesmerized by it, nearly swooned when she saw it again. Her heart beat faster as she reached for it. When her hands touched it she was struck by fleeting images yet again – memories of the sword and its noble wielders, its noble history. She gasped and nearly dropped it, but held it to herself tightly, despite the oddness in her gut, despite the spinning of her head. She knew she needed this to save Tristan.

In a corner she found a quiver of arrows and an intricately carved bow, all so ancient and beautiful and precious. The archivist in her begged her to stop and observe this living museum, but the desperation of the hour would not allow it. There was no time. Her son's life was a stake, as was Legolas' and her own.

She leaned Anduril against the wall long enough to sling the heavy quiver over her shoulder along with the bow, and grab each of the two identical long knives and place them in the belt loops of her jeans. Taking up Anduril again, she turned to leave.

And then a thought struck her – was Legolas serious about the money in the safe? Did he truly intend to keep his promise to give all that he had to Valgur, or was it merely a ruse? Pandering to his greed? Surely these weapons were the true reason for sending her here. But she did not wish to risk the chance that she could be wrong. She circled about until she found the safe and quickly went to it. Her hands were shaking oddly as she reached for the old-styled combination lock. Partly from fear, partly from an anxiety to bring this evening to some kind of end, one that would mean freedom from Valgur forever.

As her fingers touched the lock dial, she froze. What was the combination?

Legolas knelt down to Tristan and opened his arms to the boy. Tristan did not protest but fell into Legolas' arms as a son would his true father's.

"Are you well?" Legolas asked, quickly pushing the boy away so that he could see for himself if there were any injuries Charlita might have missed. Mostly, for a warning sign that despair, so destructive to an Elven heart, had taken hold of the boy.

"I'm okay," said Tristan, and gave Legolas a half-hearted smile as he shamefully wiped away his drying tears.

"I'm very proud of you," said Legolas. "You were very brave."

"Brave? I cried like a baby."

"Your tears had little to do with fear for yourself. Your tears merely tell your heart's desire. To live to protect your mother. To save her from a lifetime of despair at seeing you die. A baby knows nothing of such deep, complex feelings. You do. Do not spare your tears for the sake of pride."

"What rubbish are you filling my son's head with now?" Valgur lashed out.

"What advice would you give your son?" Legolas asked.

Valgur moved to stand just behind Legolas, where he could not see him.

"I would tell him that crying is a weak, senseless, HUMAN reaction to things over which you have lost control. Rather than cry, do what I do. Achieve satisfaction through revenge."

And then the boy's eyes widened as he cried out, "Legolas! Watch out!"

Injury had so slowed Legolas' reflexes that he had no time to move before Valgur hauled back and stabbed his knife into Legolas' back.

Legolas arched backwards and let out a thin gasp as he felt his flesh tear open. Then, suddenly, the blade was pulled violently from him. Warm blood poured from his already battered body, pooling on the floor before him. He looked up into Tristan's shocked, tearing eyes.

"NO!" the boy cried out, then, to his father, "I hate you! I hate you!"

"Now _that's_ my boy," Valgur said to Tristan. To Legolas, he spat, "_Avo thano rûth vi gûr alfirin_. Do not kindle anger in an immortal heart."

Shivering in pain, Legolas looked over his shoulder at Valgur holding the bloody knife, smiling victoriously.

"_Avo dhago hain_!" he pleaded, pushing Tristan behind him, still trying to protect the boy, "Don't kill them."

"I promise I won't, not until I'm safely out of the country, anyway. You, prince of Mirkwood, may die now."

Valgur gave Legolas a harsh kick, sending him to the floor.

Tristan was there in an instant, trying to pull Legolas back to his feet.

"Get up, Legolas! Please, get up."

"I am not yet ready to die," he whispered through clenched teeth to Tristan. "I will not die. I will not abandon you. _Estelio nin_, trust me."

"I'm sorry, cousin," Valgur said, stepping over Legolas' prone body to grab his son again, "but as much as I LOVE the idea of you being my servant, I'm accustomed to doing things my way. And my way says, trust no one but ME."

Legolas' face hit the floor hard as Valgur pulled Tristan away. He looked up to see the child struggling as Valgur held him by the back of his sweater.

"_Yro! Delio_!" _Run, hide!_

Tristan threw his arms up and slid out of his sweater, pulling away from Valgur and racing down the hall, into the dark.

Valgur tossed the sweater away and turned to give chase. He thought better of it, and turned back to Legolas, knife held high, prepared to deal his last deadly blow before going after the boy.

Legolas was gone.

All that was left upon the floor was a still warm pool of Legolas' blood.

"LEGOLAS!" Valgur cried out in frustration and fury, his voice reverberating through all of Mirkwood Manor.

"LEGOLASSSSS!"

End chapter 10

Eleven and twelve will be up in just a couple of days – if not sooner! Promise! Thanks for your kind attention. Please write and respond.


	11. Chapter 11

19

MIRKWOOD MANOR

Chapter 11

by Lacadiva

_We're getting to the homestretch here. I hope you're enjoying it. Mirkwood Manor strays way far from Tolkien's canon, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. Please feel free to respond and review. There will be a chapter twelve and there it shall all end. Hope you'll stick around for it. Until then, on with Mirkwood Manor._

From the previous chapter:

_And then the boy's eyes widened as he cried out, "Legolas! Watch out!"_

_Injury had so slowed Legolas' reflexes that he had no time to move before Valgur hauled back and stabbed his knife into Legolas' back. _

_Legolas arched backwards and let out a thin gasp. Then, suddenly, the blade was pulled violently from him. Warm blood poured from his already battered body, pooling on the floor before him. He looked up into Tristan's shocked, tearing eyes._

"_NO!" the boy cried out, then, to his father, "I hate you! I hate you!"_

"_Now that's my boy," Valgur said to Tristan. To Legolas, he spat, "Avo thano rûth vi gûr alfirin. Do not kindle anger in an immortal heart."_

_Shivering in pain, Legolas looked over his shoulder at Valgur holding the bloody knife, smiling victoriously. _

"_Avo dhago hain!" he pleaded, pushing Tristan behind him, still trying to protect the boy, "Don't kill them."_

"_I promise I won't, not until I'm safely out of the country, anyway. You, prince of Mirkwood, may die now."_

_Valgur gave Legolas a harsh kick, sending him to the floor. _

_Tristan was there in an instant, trying to pull Legolas back to his feet._

"_Get up, Legolas! Please, get up."_

"_I am not yet ready to die," he whispered through clenched teeth to Tristan. "I will not die. I will not abandon you. Estelio nin, trust me."_

"_I'm sorry, cousin," Valgur said, stepping over Legolas' prone body to grab his son again, "but as much as I LOVE the idea of you being my servant, I'm accustomed to doing things my way. And my way says, trust no one but ME."_

_Legolas' face hit the floor hard as Valgur pulled Tristan away. He looked up to see the child struggling as Valgur held him by the back of his sweater. _

"_Yro! Delio!" Run, hide!_

_Tristan threw his arms up and slid out of his sweater, pulling away from Valgur and racing down the hall, into the dark._

_Valgur tossed the sweater away and turned to give chase. He thought better of it, and turned back to Legolas, knife held high, prepared to deal his last deadly blow before going after the boy. _

_Legolas was gone. _

_All that was left upon the floor was a still warm pool of Legolas' blood._

"_LEGOLAS!" Valgur cried out in frustration and fury, his voice reverberating through all of Mirkwood Manor._

"_LEGOLASSSSS!"_

­­­­­­

Chapter 11

Charlita searched her memory, her fingers clutching her scalp, thin dreads cascading over her face. What were the numbers to the combination? She could kick herself. She had been so intent on saving her son that she could not remember this one thing that might help her do that very thing!

How could she be so –

And then she remembered. She reached for the knob and quickly spun it to the number twelve. The second number she remembered instantly and spun it in the other direction to seventeen. The last number gave her pause to think. What was it?

"Think!" She yelled at herself, the anguish of her situation compounded by her fear of inadequacy. How could she forget! Her son's life was at stake! She banged her fist angrily against the safe door, and felt pain reverberate up through her elbow. And then she remembered.

Three. Three!

She spun the knob again and pulled the lever.

Yes!

There was far more than fifty thousand dollars in Legolas' safe. Some of it felt old and brittle. She dismissed her observations and concentrated on shoving as much of the cash as she could in her clothing to deliver to the library. Currency littered the floor as she nervously fought to collect it.

As she turned to leave, someone was standing before her, blocking the way.

"Mom!"

She dropped to her knees and Tristan instantly flung his arms around her. She kept hold of the money and the heavy weapons.

"Wow, look at all THAT stuff!" He marveled at the sight of the bow, reaching for one of the arrows.

"No! Don't touch. I want you to stay in here until I come back and tell you it's safe to come out!"

"No, I want to come with you. I want to help!"

"You can't."

"You can't do it alone!"

"Alone? What do you mean alone? Where's Legolas?"

"He's dead. I think. I saw him. He…_my father_…stabbed him in the back. There was blood everywhere."

"You saw it happen?"

He nodded. Tears ran down the boy's cheeks again.

"He said he wasn't ready to die yet. But I don't think anybody can live after that."

"I'm so sorry you had to see that, baby. I promise you'll never have to see anything like that again. Not after tonight."

"Mom…please let me help you."

"You can help me by staying here and being safe. If you're safe, then I know I can do what has to be done. I almost lost you once tonight. I never want to feel that again. _Without you, I would die_. My heart would break and never mend. Do you understand that?"

He didn't want to, but he nodded.

"Good. Then stay here, and be safe. I want you to …"

And then they heard a sound reverberating through the house that set her teeth on edge and struck fear deeper into her heart.

"LEGOLASSSS!"

Charlita quickly pushed Tristan into the war room and closed the secret door before the boy could protest. She could hear him, calling out to her angrily, banging on the door, but she could not relent, she could not give in. She had to protect him at all costs.

Holding on dearly to the money and the Elven sword, the quiver and bow bouncing hard against her back and the knives slapping against her legs, Charlita raced out of Legolas' room for the library.

He was hiding in the library, behind a heavy tapestry, not in fear, but to gather his strength and formulate a strategy.

Legolas was grateful to Iluvatar that he had been granted the speed and strength needed in that moment to get away, but this boon was a short-lived, fleeting thing. Legolas felt physical weakness begging to overcome him. His bullet wound ached deeply, and his fresh stab wound throbbed mightily, though luckily the bleeding had already slowed to a thin trickle. He felt the rush of a fever radiating all over his body, burning under his skin. Not a good thing for an Elf to suffer. But he could not let this weakness be revealed to Valgur, for his wretched cousin would take every advantage. Charlita and Tristan's safety depended on Legolas' strength now. And he was determined that the two of them would live.

And then he heard someone entering the library. He could tell by the footfalls – smallish feet, though not quite as small as a boy's. Not stealthy, as Valgur would be as he hunted his prey. He deduced, with great relief that Charlita had finally arrived. He prayed she had been successful.

He pushed the tapestry away from him slightly and whispered her name. Charlita reacted with a jolt, but finally looked his way. Her eyes widened with grave concern and fear as she saw the deluge of drying blood covering the Elf.

"Ssshhh… Avo bedo!" he bid her in a commanding whisper.

She did not understand the words, but she understood the sentiment. Do not speak.

She quickly placed all the money upon the coffee table in the center of the room, then slipped behind the tapestry to join him, fighting to calm her breathing and the trembling that started once she entered the room.

And then she handed over Anduril.

Instantly, Legolas felt the strength he needed begin to fill his body, once the cold hilt filled his hands and quickly warmed.

"Where is Tristan? Is he safe?"

"I locked him in your war room," she whispered nervously.

"Good," he said. "Leave the other weapons – keep one of the knives for yourself, just in case."

She nodded and shrugged out of the quiver and bow. She felt a sudden surge of power when she put her hands on the knives still hanging from her belt loops. She removed one and held onto the other.

"Now what?" she whispered.

"Hide in the garden until I come for you."

"No, I don't want to hide. I want to help you."

"No, Charlita!"

"This is my fight too!"

"I will not argue with you! It is too dangerous. "

"Legolas, please…"

"Avo bedo!" Legolas said suddenly, his eyes wide as he listened. Then, turning to her he said: "He is here."

Charlita could feel her heart beating harder, and felt a fearful sickness rising up inside her.

"Stay," was all Legolas said as he deftly brought up the sword without disturbing the tapestry, without giving away their hiding place.

She nodded and gripped harder the handle of the long knife.

Anduril shook slightly in Legolas' grasp as bands of muscles quivered in his arms from exhaustion and stress of injuries. Even so, he would not tire. He would not fail. Failing was not a thing he could allow or afford.

They waited in silence for Valgur to find them.

Valgur stopped at the doorway, his eyes fixed so completely upon the stacks of money on the table in the middle of the room that he for the moment forgot that he was in search of his immortal enemy. He nearly swooned at the sight.

He moved for the table, a hand outstretched, just wanting to touch it. He had seen much money in his time, but it never ceased to be a thrilling and satisfying sight.

When his hand did touch the money, he held his breath. All that mattered was the money. This was his way out of this mess, and on to the next place. Once again, to the victor go the spoils.

And then he heard a sound he was not expecting. Something WHISHING through he air, a tremendous rush that came down hard and fast and before he could react. Valgur realized his hand was still upon the money, even though his body had fallen backwards upon the floor.

Someone had cut off his hand!

"LEGOLAS! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

Valgur tucked and rolled across the floor, holding on to the bloody stump, his body shaking from the shock of this unthinkable physical trauma.

Legolas stood panting, hunched over before him, the sword still upon the table, Valgur's blood wet upon it, the hand a lonely extremity left to grow cold.

Sweat poured down Legolas brow, down his chest, burning like a fire in his open wounds. But he would not let that stop him, not as long as he was so close to finally stopping Valgur.

"I think it is quite fitting," Legolas said, "that the thief should lose that which has been his bread and butter. What other offensive part of you shall I remove? What else has been the source of misery? Your cunning mind? Shall I remove your head? Or your tongue, for the lies that fell from it? Your shriveled, unkind and uncaring heart, shall I cut that out?"

Valgur tucked his bleeding stump inside his shirt, holding it up as if in a sling, and spun his long knife in the other, still good hand.

"I think you've removed quite enough. Apparently, cousin," he continued with a shaky voice filled with pain, "you've forgotten that it was you who trained me to be ambidextrous as a swordsman. So I can still give you one last, good fight, before one of us leaves this wretched existence."

"Yield now," Legolas said, "and I will spare you life."

"To do WHAT? Languish for all eternity in prison? Or to be followed around by you for another thousand years? Do you think you can rehabilitate me, teach me to be quiet, kind and gentle? Face the truth, we will never see things eye to eye, cousin. So let us just end it here and now. We fight! Maetho 'nin gurth! Fight to the death."

Valgur raised his blade and brought it down hard. It fell upon Anduril with a resounding clang.

"Perhaps your introduction to Anduril was not dramatic enough for you?" shouted Legolas, and swung Anduril high and hard down upon Valgur's blade. He could feel the weaker blade giving a bit under the power of the Flame of the West.

"T'was not the drama that impressed me. Just that you…sentimental you…still claim the sword of King Aragorn, as if it could bring him back. Pity you do not carry your Father's sword. Perhaps that would bring you some false comfort as well."

Valgur struck back hard.

Legolas took a deep breath, calling upon all the strength he could muster, and lifted Anduril and struck at Valgur again. He missed. He had let his anger lead him, instead of his training, instead of his mind.

Legolas again lifted the sword to re-address his not yet retreating foe.

Tristan could hear the fight even behind the secret door. He pounded upon the door until he thought his fists would bleed, but the walls would not yield. Frustrated, he stepped back to see if there was something in the room he could use to extricate himself. He looked around in the candlelit room, and gasped when he saw what weapons remained. He found a second set of arrows and a handcrafted bow, similar to but smaller and much less elaborate than the set his mother had carried. He picked up the bow. It fit his hand as if it had been fashioned for him exclusively. Had this belonged to Legolas when he was but a child? His first bow an arrow, upon which he first learned to shoot? How amazingly perfect and normal this foreign thing felt in Tristan's hands.

Slinging the weapon and arsenal upon his back, he searched more earnestly for the way out. There had to be a way.

Charlita kicked the tapestry away from her and came out screaming from under it with a blade held high to strike out at Valgur. The combatants both stopped – froze with blades in mid-air – to stare at Charlita. What did she think she was she doing?

Embarrassment claimed her for only a moment.

And then the combatants resumed.

They moved too fast and too randomly for her to even begin to plan a strategy or offer help. Despite the momentary discouragement, she was determined that she would not let Legolas stand alone in this fight. She would die, or Valgur would die – either way, she swore to herself that she would never be enslaved by his violent nature again.

She saw Legolas turn and look at her quickly. She honestly thought, with all that was going on, that she recognized a flash of disapproval in his eyes. She would not run, she would not hide. She would fight. She would stand ready if, by some stroke of misfortune, Legolas fell.

Every hit upon Anduril reverberated into the most painful places on Legolas' body, but he did not allow this agony to dissuade him. He fought hard and furiously, never once allowing Valgur the advantage he so furiously sought.

"Have you not yet had enough?" Valgur demanded. "I'm through toying with you!"

"Your attempts to disarm me psychologically will not work. You forget, I have much to repay you for, Valgur."

He sliced deeply into Valgur's upper arm and heard him cry out. Valgur nearly dropped his blade, but recovered himself quickly.

Legolas also noticed how profusely the stump bled. How much longer could he last?

"For Aragorn!"

He sliced into Valgur's left thigh.

"For the woman at Lhun!"

He spun and stabbed at Valgur, knicking his opponent's side.

"For my father."

He sliced a thin line across Valgur's chest.

Despite the many bleeding places decorating Valgur's body, he would not yield, would not weaken. Indeed, the pain only seemed to fuel him, feed him.

Valgur spun and stabbed Legolas' right upper arm, his intention to weaken his opponent's grip upon Anduril and thus disarm him.

Legolas merely used his other hand to hold Anduril steady and continued to fight, undaunted.

Time seemed to take on a quality of unreality, as if the two were suspended in a place where the past met the present. They may well have been on the shores of Lhun, or in the forest outside of Gondor. For all that mattered, Mirkwood Manor may have just as well been an illusion.

Legolas, tiring, let himself be lead by the timelessness he felt, rather than fight against it. He swept his sword by Valgur, missing him, but managing to knock from the table a large, unbound stack of money. Currency floated in many directions.

Valgur saw this and panicked, his eyes glued to the money that was seemingly getting away from him.

Charlita saw this. She now had a strategy, a way to help. She knew she could always depend on Valgur's greatest weakness – selfishness – to be his undoing.

Charlita raised her long knife – not at Valgur, but at the money. She hit hard. Several hundred dollars' worth flew across the room and into the smoldering fireplace. The fire, fed by the dry paper, re-ignited and grew to life again.

To Valgur's sheer and utter horror.

Valgur leaped for the fireplace and using his sword, scraped out as much of the money not yet burnt as he could. Legolas and Charlita both watched in awe and amazement at Valgur's anxiety and greed.

Legolas swung Anduril like a baseball bat, sending more money into the fire. Charlita followed suit, sending even more bills scattering and burning.

Valgur let out a frustrated cry as he scrambled for the cash again.

"QUIT BURNING MY MONEY!"

"I will," Legolas cried, "if you do for me one thing."

"NO DEALS!" Valgur shouted.

Legolas made a move to swipe the last of the cash into the fire.

"ALL RIGHT! WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

"Tell me," Legolas said, fighting to control his breath, forcing his body to keep moving despite the agony competing against him, "where are the children?"

"Children? What children?" Valgur asked, then realized. "Oh, them."

"What children?" Charlita echoed.

"Tell her," Legolas demanded.

"Tell me what?" she demanded. She grabbed a fistful of money and held it toward the growing fire.

"NO!" Valgur cried out. And then he relented.

"Suffice to say, Tristan is not my only child. I have a few…others."

Charlita swallowed hard, trying not to let show hearing this crushed her heart.

"How many others?"

"I don't remember," said Valgur.

Charlita edged closer to the fire.

"HOW MANY?"

She could feel the heat prickling her flesh, yet she moved closer still. The currency began to singe and smoke around the edges.

"I honestly don't remember exactly how many! Perhaps two…two hundred would not be far from accurate."

"Two…_hundred?_"

It was as if all the air in the room had been pulled out. Charlita felt light-headed, alarmed, and angry, all at the same time.

"Two hundred," she repeated.

"We're talking about a few hundred years' worth of romantic alliances…most of them were actually sired before we met. I did have a life before you, you realize."

She let the money fall from her hand and looked to Legolas for strength. He offered his hand to steady her, but she refused.

She stood erect, breathed deeply, and looked down at Valgur with the most hateful expression he had ever seen.

"I pity you," was all she said.

"Where are they?" Legolas asked again, his voice calmer yet stronger than Valgur had ever heard it. "I wish to find them. All of them."

"Whatever on earth for?"

"To help them."

"Help them what?"

"Cope with life. Understand their differences. Teach them the way of elves and the way of man, and give them a chance at a life unlike yours."

"Must you always be so insulting, cousin?"

"WHERE ARE THEY?"

"They're everywhere! They're here, they're there! Everywhere!"

"Make an attempt to be specific, Valgur. My patience grows weak."

"As does your body, I can tell. I too grow weary of all this fighting. Let us strike an accord. In exchange for my freedom, I'll give you the location of each and every one of my offspring."

"Don't believe him," Charlita said.

"Do we have a deal or not?"

"No deal," said Legolas.

"Too bad. It's the only one I was prepared to make."

Valgur struck out again with his blade, and the fighting was renewed. Valgur came at Legolas with a tremendous force, beating the fair-haired Elf down until his knees bent under the pressure of the blade. He pushed Legolas to the floor, then swept around and hit Charlita across the face with his bloody stump.

Her blade flew from her hands across the room. Valgur grabbed Charlita, an arm around her throat, his bloody stump leaking blood down Charlita's shirt. She cursed under her breath for allowing herself to be caught off-guard.

Valgur brought the blade to her chest.

"Move, and Tristan is an orphan."

Legolas remained still, his bright eyes wide, his mouth held tight with anger.

"Kill him!" Charlita shouted to Legolas.

"He won't, Charlita darling, not as long as I have you. Now, Legolas, I have new terms for surrender. Give me Anduril."

"Where would you like to receive it?"

"Very funny. Give me the sword. NOW. Put it on the floor."

Legolas did as Valgur instructed.

"Now, send it to me. Gently. Keep in mind that the blade I hold will easily find her heart. I know exactly where it is."

Legolas hesitated merely a second, and Valgur slashed the blade across Charlita's throat.

Charlita gasped, shaking, expecting a torrent a blood to spill from her.

It was merely a superficial wound, a thin line, meant to frighten, meant to convince Legolas to cooperate, not to kill her.

It worked.

Legolas gave the blade a push with his foot, just enough that it ended up just at Charlita's feet. Valgur slung his blade to the floor and quickly scooped up Legolas' surrendered sword.

"The legendary Anduril, Flame of the West, re-forged by the Elves. How appropriate that it should be in the hands of the one person it could not kill. How even more appropriate it should be the sword that finally slays the Prince of Mirkwood."

Finding his way out of Legolas' war room was easier than he thought it would be. Tristan was proud of himself, even though he knew he'd probably find himself in great trouble for disobeying. It would all be quite worth it if he could protect his mother and avenge his friend.

Tristan moved so quietly down the stairs that even he was surprised. He heard raised voices, could hear his mother, and knew she was alive. But he knew that he must do something if he wanted her to remain that way.

When he heard Legolas, he was relieved, but could also tell by the strain in the Elf's voice that his strength was soon to leave him. Tristan notched the arrow, surprised at how natural it all felt in his hands, and pulled back. He knew by the lightness of the bow that it would not have much kick, but it could be used to distract, if not to dispatch.

He stepped into the hall and made his way to the library.

Legolas held his back wound and knew by the feel that he was in danger. Though it had begun to heal earlier, so much activity as fighting had caused it to reopen and bleed freely again. His bullet wound was also inflamed now, the pain having changed from a dull throbbing to a constant burning. His skin felt hot, and he was sweating far more than any elf should. His entire body felt heavy, and it was becoming harder to move, harder to breathe, even harder to think. He knew he needed rest and aid soon or he would suffer greatly later.

Or die.

His greatest problem, however, was not his wounds, but that Anduril, which he had sworn to protect and preserve for the rest of his life, was now in the hands, or rather, hand, of Valgur.

"Legolas," said Valgur, "it pains me to bring this chapter of our long lives to an end, but it must be done. I'm bored, and it's simply time to move on. Wouldn't you agree? Before I kill you, however, I want to assuage your curiosity. Many of my seed are scattered freely around the globe, but the majority of them – the youngest ones - are indeed in Australia. Something about Australian women…hmm…but I digress. Some are in England, Morocco, Greece, one or two in Italy. A few in Dakar, and…jah, in Sweden. Not all of them live as long as your average purebred Elf would. Pity. As for where the rest of them are, I'm afraid I've lost track. Fathering a child was far more appealing to me than actually being a father. So…now that you know…."

Valgur lifted Anduril, targeting it at Legolas' heart.

"…you can die. Say goodbye, Legolas Greenleaf."

THWACK

Something swished through the air and slammed into Valgur's back. He cried out, letting go of Charlita, body twisted in pain.

It was a sensation he had not felt in several thousand years. He did not need to see it to know that there was an arrow protruding just below his left shoulder blade.

He turned, nonetheless, to see who had shot him.

"Tristan!" Charlita cried.

"Tristan?" parroted Valgur.

Legolas merely smiled.

Valgur raised Anduril as if he would charge the boy. Tristan stood frozen for a beat, then, with trembling hands attempted to notch a second arrow. He could not. The arrow clattered to the floor. He looked up and saw the fury in his father's eyes and felt his small body shivering with fear.

Legolas leapt from where he stood and tackled Valgur to the floor, wrestling him for possession of the Flame of the West. Valgur managed to aim every blow at Legolas's wounds, but Legolas would not relent, would not let go. This time, he meant to finish this battle once and for all.

Charlita reached for the long knife Valgur discarded in favor of Anduril. Taking the hilt in both hands she stabbed downward hard, penetrating Valgur's shin, past bone, and pinning Valgur's leg to the floor.

Valgur screamed and let go of Anduril, reaching for his wounded leg with his existing hand. He could not move very far without great pain. The blade held him fast to the boards. He wasn't going anywhere.

Legolas stood over him, bloody, broken, but not yet crushed, the sword of his dearest friend reclaimed and held to deliver the final blow.

"I yield! I yield! Mercy."

"Too late," Legolas spat.

"Wait! Wait, please. A word for my son before I die?"

No one spoke in protest, so Valgur took that as a yes.

Tristan came the rest of the way into the room. He had the second arrow notched now, just in case, and held it aimed at his father.

"I want you to know, son, what you mean to me. Less than nothing. Of all my offspring, I consider you the greatest failure. Take that with you for the rest of your unnaturally long life."

Valgur smiled when he saw the single tear born of rejection and grief slide down Tristan's cheek.

Tristan increased the tension on the bow, prepared to shoot.

"No!" Charlita cried. "Tristan, don't. Please. This is not for you to do. This is not for you to remember for the rest of your life. Please. Put the bow down."

"Tristan," Legolas whispered to the boy, "Your mother is right. If you do this, your heart will always carry a scar that will never fully heal."

Tristan let his eyes look up to meet Legolas', then his mother's. He slowly let the tension out of the bow, and returned the arrow to the quiver on his back.

"You're lucky they were here," Tristan said cockily to Valgur, then stepped back and allowed his mother to put her protective arms around him.

"It's over," she whispered in her son's ear.

"Charlita."

She looked up at Legolas.

"I want you and Tristan to leave."

"Why?"

"I must finish what I have started, and I do not wish you to be here for it."

"Fine. We'll be upstairs."

"No," Legolas protested. "Go home. I do not want you anywhere near this place for a time. And I want you to call the Authorities and tell them where they can find me."

"Why? You shouldn't be punished for this."

"That is where you are wrong. To take a life – any life – is a serious matter. I must accept full responsibility for my actions."

"But Legolas…" Tristan began. He did not know what words to use to dissuade the Elf, but knew he needed to speak up.

Charlita gently urged Tristan aside and stepped up to face Legolas.

"You have put your life on the line for us since the beginning. Let me be here when the police arrive. All we have to do is tell the truth."

"If they do not believe us, you may face a term of imprisonment. I cannot allow that."

"It's not your choice."

"Can you stand to be separated from your son? Are you prepared for that consequence, Charlita?"

She looked at her son, and instantly tears sprang to her eyes.

"He needs his mother," Legolas said. "Besides, I have survived nearly ten thousand years. Twenty years in prison will not be so dreadful, if that is indeed my fate."

"You'll probably look the same when you come out," Charlita said lightly. "I hate that."

Legolas allowed himself to smile back at her.

"How do I thank you?" she asked.

"You already have."

Charlita held out her hand to Tristan, who instantly reached for it.

"Come on, Tristan. Let's go home."

They headed for the door. Both turned back to give Legolas one last look. And then they were gone.

Legolas knelt down to Valgur.

Valgur laughed, blood spilling from his mouth.

"The worm turns yet again, Prince of Mirkwood," he said weakly. "You're going to have many, many admirers in prison. If you last long enough. You will come to know a despair unlike anything you've ever experienced. Mark my word. You'll be begging for death."

"I doubt that, Valgur."

"Well, get it over with. Finish it."

Legolas pulled a pillow from the nearby couch.

He was surprised when Legolas actually lifted Valgur's head and placed it gently upon the pillow.

"You're not going to start speechifying again, are you? Bore me to bloody death? Is that how I am to die? Where's the dignity in that?"

"I only wish to know one thing. How did my father die?"

"I'll never tell."

Legolas grabbed Valgur by the scruff of his shirt and pulled him up violently. Valgur coughed and spat blood. Death was not very far away. Legolas, regretting his anger at that moment, lay Valgur back upon the pillow.

"You've got eternity to suffer not knowing," Valgur said. "Pity I won't be around to watch you agonize. But I'll die happy, knowing I've hurt you. Hurt you deeply. I may not have succeeded in killing you, but I've hurt you."

"When you stand at the Hall of Mandos, cousin," Legolas spat, "I pray they not only toss you out, but send you to a hell fashioned especially for you."

"No hell can surpass ten thousand years of your self-righteous proselytizing, Legolas Greenleaf. If you're going to kill me, kill me now."

Legolas could see that Valgur was weakening fast. His face glistened with sweat, his body jerked with small spasms. He could barely keep his eyes open.

"Go ahead, do it. End my misery. Send me to my eternal doom."

"No," said Legolas. "You're already dying. I can wait."

And then Legolas began to sing.

As much as Valgur wanted to be angry, he could not help but smile.

"My ears have longed to hear such songs," Valgur whispered. "I'd all but forgotten."

Legolas continued to sing.

Valgur remembered a time when such a song could easily move his heart. Fleeting memories of more joyous times, sparring with wooden swords with his young, fair-haired cousin. Laughing and running through the forest of Mirkwood. Perilous adventures traveling to Rivendell. Memories of lying under dense green trees – the smell of sweet moss, the feel of warm air against his skin on a summer day. All these thoughts – memories - filled his mind. Valgur smiled, and coughed again.

Legolas repositioned Valgur so that he would not drown in his own blood.

"You realize," said Valgur, "that if the tables were turned, I would not sing to you, nor hesitate to take your head off."

"Of that I am sure."

"I did love you once. Dearly love you. Remember your nine hundredth birthday? I gave you the double long knives with the white handles. You said you had never seen any weapon more beautiful. We were so happy that day. So happy. Do you remember?"

"I will never forget it."

"Do you still have them? The knives?"

"Yes."

Valgur smile. But his smile did not last long.

"Tiro – look! The lights have gone out."

Valgur's lips moved to speak again, but nothing came out.

He was quite dead.

"Losto mae," Legolas whispered. _Sleep well._

Legolas closed his cousin's eyes with the back of his bloody hand, and, despite all he had been through, all he had suffered at the hand of Valgur, he said a prayer to the Valar that there would be forgiveness for him.

And then, he let his own exhausted, battered body fall to the floor.

End chapter 11

One more to go! Hope you liked it.


	12. Chapter 12

7

Mirkwood Manor

Chapter 12

by

Lacadiva

_The final chapter! Let's get right to it, and by the way, thank you thank you thank you for your kind patience and attention._

Dawn broke with brilliance and promise. Watching it from 35,000 feet above the face of the earth was an unparalleled, thrilling sight, Legolas decided. The window was small in the cabin of the plane, but he could see enough to wonder how Aragorn would have reacted to this view of the world with the clouds below them. It was truly humbling and awe-inspiring.

The events of the previous week replayed in his mind as the craft began its slow descent. Waking up in a hospital – a frightening place to be should the overworked doctors and nurses decide to examine too closely his strange physiology. Days upon days of interrogation and background checking by the police; hours upon hours of consultations with lawyers. All this finally brought them to a place where it was determined that the death of Valgur was not murder, but self-defense. All parties seemed to agree that Valgur, an escaped convict, posed a tremendous threat to his son, his ex-wife, her employer, and the public at large. They were all satisfied that the stories offered by Legolas, Charlita and Tristan corroborated. Valgur had broken into Mirkwood Manor and held the boy at knife-point. A fight ensued, which lead to the death of Valgur.

The city was unofficially, tacitly grateful that there was one less egregious, unrepentant felon for them to support through the penal system. The police, once frustrated, were happy that they no longer had to expend excessive man-hours to find the illusive Valgur (a thing Legolas could understand from his own experience). The lawyers were satisfied that there was no case to set before a judge, and that the lack of a prior criminal record – not even a parking citation – where Legolas was concerned gave them sufficient impetus to withdraw any changes against him. All were happy to simply let him go home.

He smiled when he recalled the way the police, whilst investigating the case, were equally suspicious and enamored of the various weapons found at Mirkwood Manor. One of the officers, a detective had offered the observation that Legolas was obviously one of those "renaissance festival types," and went on to describe how his own daughter would dress up in elaborate and expensive period costumes to traipse around the dusty woods in the middle of the summer. "Frankly," the officer had offered, "I don't see the appeal."

Legolas' smile faded when he recalled his last meeting with Charlita and Tristan. It was a good parting, but bittersweet, as with all things difficult but necessary.

When Legolas first broke the news that he would be leaving for a time, Tristan became sullen and uncommunicative with his mother. She brought Tristan to Mirkwood Manor for a final visit before his departure, and he noticed that Tristan had brought with him his Spiderman backpack, which was filled to bursting with all of Tristan's most prized possessions (his first edition X-men comics and a Gameboy), clothing, toothbrush and a folded map of the world.

"He has it in his mind to follow you," Charlita told him. "Please, talk to him."

Legolas led the boy to the garden, to their favorite spot, and sat him down.

"Where I go, you cannot follow."

"Why not? I want to go with you. I can't stay here."

"What about your mother? Do you realize how terribly she would miss you? Do you know how her heart would break? She needs you very much."

Legolas could see how deeply torn the boy was.

"I don't want you to leave."

"I must. They need me."

"I need you too."

"Then you must believe this, and believe it with all your heart. I will return. I will never forget you. I will teach you everything I know, and I will always be your friend."

Despite Legolas' promise, Tristan looked dejected, and for the first time since the ordeal he had survived, like the little boy that he was. Tears spilled down his cheeks, and he allowed himself to pout.

"Before I go, Tristan, I must ask you to do me a great service. An honor. Will you?"

"What?"

"First, watch over my home. Live here, with your mother, of course. Protect it, as if it were on the very lands of Mirkwood. And protect your mother. See to her safety and happiness. Finally, take great care of Anduril for me."

"Anduril? You're giving it to me?"

"Not yet. It will pass to you someday. For now, I wish you to be the keeper of Anduril. Protect it and preserve its honor. Let it never fall into the hands of those who would use it for ill. You cannot do that if you follow me."

"Wow. Thanks. I mean, yeah, I'll take care of it."

"And my home as well?"

"Sure. If it's okay with mom."

"I'm sure it will be. Listen…"

"What?"

"The trees. They are delighted. They like you very much. They are pleased that you will be here to keep them company in my place."

"They said that?"

"Yes."

Tristan sat very still, listening hard.

"I can't hear them."

"You will come to hear them, in time. When you learn to listen with your whole heart. Come, let us return to the manor."

They walked side by side, taking in the last vestige of warmth before the arrival of winter.

"If you throw in the bow and arrows, you have a deal."

"Deal," Legolas said, "but you'll have to practice everyday."

"Deal," said Tristan. "Hey, how do you say friend in Elf…I mean, Elvish?"

"Mellon."

"Melon?"

"No…_mellon_. Mellon nin. My friend."

"Mellon nin. Cool."

When they returned to the house, Legolas sought out Charlita, and found her sitting quietly in the library. It had been cleaned up and restored since the final battle with Valgur, but it still brought an odd feeling to Legolas, a feeling of loss, whenever he entered the room.

He sat beside Charlita.

"Tristan is satisfied to remain."

"How did you manage that?" she asked.

"I gave him what we all crave. Responsibility. I should tell you, I've also involved you in our…deal."

"In what way?"

"I've asked Tristan to remain here at Mirkwood Manor, to live here until I return. I extend the same invitation to you. Not as a caretaker, but as a much honored guest. I have no desire to sell the place or rent it. You may live freely here, enjoy and eat freely from my garden, and continue your archival work. For your own enjoyment, of course. There are many more maps and books and scrolls that need your expert care and attention."

"Legolas, I can't. This is too much."

"Please."

"How long will you be gone?"

"It could be months. Perhaps even a few years. I cannot tell until I've begun the search."

"Twist my arm."

"Why would I want to do such a thing to you?"

"No," she laughed, "it's just an expression. It means yes, I'll do it. It would be my honor."

"Then, consider your arm twisted. You are faring well since the ordeal?"

"I still have nightmares."

"As do I. My heart has not been the same. For thousands of years I held to the thought of justice for Valgur's misdeeds, and now…I only feel an emptiness."

"That will change, once you find his…children. That hurt me deeper than I thought it would. I was in love, but to him, I was just a vessel, a carrier for his…ego. How did I get so easily sucked in?"

"You have good reason to feel anger at being misused," Legolas said, "but do not despair. Everything has a reason. I believe you have an even greater part yet to play. Out there are those who will need the kindness and understanding only you can provide. Every trouble you experienced at the hand of Valgur, though it brought you great pain, also brought us together as allies. It is no random act, but fate. And if you dismiss all you've been through as poor luck or a cursed life, you miss the opportunity to do something positive with it. You can change minds, change hearts, change lives. If your are willing."

"What are you asking me?"

"When I find them, the children of Valgur, I will do all I can to give them hope. A purpose and a future. Teach them all I know of what it means to be an elf. Would you consider helping them understand what it means to be human? Teach them kindness, mercy, compassion. Mostly, forgiveness."

"I don't know. I'm not qualified. I don't know if I have what it takes…and I'm still so angry…"

"You have a heart, do you not? And a desperate need to ease the pain and suffering of others. I see that in your eyes. You have a mind that chooses to love when others would choose hate. That, to me, makes you more than qualified. If you need a concrete example of your ability to teach others to love, look to your son. What better qualification could you possibly have?"

"If you find them, and you need me, I'm there for you."

"Thank you."

"No. I should be thanking you. You were willing to die for my son and me. You barely knew me, yet you were willing to give up your own life. Whether you like it or not, you have a friend in me."

Charlita smiled. Legolas reached out and barely touched the side of her face with a finger.

"You should smile more," he said. " It is quite beautiful."

"Easy. That kind of talk usually gets me in trouble."

Legolas withdrew his hand, but gave her a smile of his own.

"Tomorrow," he said, "I leave for Australia."

"Your first time in Sydney, Mr. Greenleaf?"

"Yes," he said with a smile.

"And the purpose of your visit?"

"Pleasure."

The Customs Officer looked carefully at his face and compared it to his passport photo. After a beat, and once the computer offered no negative information, the officer stamped Legolas' passport and handed it back to him with a curt smile.

"Welcome to Australia."

Legolas stood at Sydney harbor. He had not seen water so blue and perfect since before the Third Age.

_They will be your kin and kind. They will need your guidance. _

He walked the streets, searching the faces of the crowd as they walked by him. Friendly people, he noticed. But where would he begin to search? How would he find them?

_They will need you to teach them everything you know._

It was then that he realized someone was following him. Smallish feet, by the sound of each footfall. Soft shoes, perhaps a running shoe. Warn down, he could tell. Legolas slowed and instantly realized that the one who followed him had stopped.

Legolas turned. A sea of people moved around him. One person remained still, eyes upon him. Eyes that were electric blue. Skin that was pale, almost glowing. Long dark hair, so black it was nearly blue. Clothes clean but worn. There was shyness in her gesture - hands wringing, held under her chin. But there was boldness and openness in her expression. By human standards, one might have guessed her to be no more than eighteen. But Legolas knew better. She was far older than she appeared. And she would look this way for a very long time.

A gust of wind blew her hair out of the way, revealing ears that ended in soft tapered points. She reached up to rearrange her hair around her ears, to hide them, but thought better of it as she saw the tall blond Elf allow the wind to blow his hair freely, exposing him for what he was.

Legolas moved closer. She took one step away, but only one. She remained, trembling. And then she smiled.

"I knew you'd come," she said with a strong Aussie accent.

"How could you know?"

"Saw you in my dreams. Are you my father?"

"I am not. But I have come to take care of you."

He held out a hand. She hesitated, then reached out and took Legolas' hand. Her hand was small and delicate, but her grip was warm and strong.

"Mae govannen," he said. "Man eneth lin? What is your name?"

"Name's Joy."

"Joy," Legolas repeated, a smile wide upon his face. "How appropriate, for that is what I feel this very moment meeting you, my kin. I eneth nin Legolas. Gil sila erin lu e-govaded vin. A star shines upon the hour of our meeting."

"Sounds nice," Joy said. "Sounds real nice."

"Are there others?"

She nodded.

"Take me to them."

"Right," she said with a smile. "This way. I'll show you."

THE END

Hope you enjoyed Mirkwood Manor. I've enjoyed writing it. Please feel free to respond and thanks for all your kind attention and encouragement - Lacadiva


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